Patricia Spears Jones is a poet living in New York City. This poem is reprinted from her book, "The Weather That Kills." Copyright 1995 by Coffee House Press.

When the life-sized replicas of the Nina,
the Pinta, and the Santa Maria
precariously sailed into New York harbor,
they looked like toy ships.

Just think, Columbus in a toy ship.
Off to discover the perfect route -
the fastest way to China, the Indies,
all that spice.

He never got this far north.
But all the same, the slaughter of whole peoples,
buildings that even God had not thought of in 1492,
and "expulsion," "discovery," the "Slave Trade"
all followed.

Out of this horror came
new foods
new clothes
new shoes
a language as mixed as the blood of the people
and as alienating.

But there are times when the connections, no matter how fragile,
hold, like the thick sails of those tall ships
which decorated the harbor - July 4 in fog and gentle light.
It is why I appreciate my favorite shade of lipstick:
Sherry Velour.

Sounds like the name of a drag queen from the early seventies.
One of those strapping Black men who had enough of playing macho,
put their feet in five-inch heels and made saints of Dinah Washington,
Rita Hayworth and a very young Nina Simone.

So, on goes this lipstick. Pretty for parties.
Fatal for festivals.
Sherry Velour and her hot discoveries:
light above the fog,
a toy ship.
Black men in sequined dresses and the click of new words
in the new world where the most dangerous of dreams
come true.