Pale
The brown children
Play with the white children.
The black children
Play with the brown children.
They charge at one another
Hands up, like antlers,
Hitting and howling.
I'm not welcome to play.
The reason: I'm too white.
No one likes too-white,
Eastern White,
Polish winter white,
Vampire-fright white.
Brown is OK - usually.
But white is too bad.
At lunch time
I hide
In the corner
Of the yard
By a drinking fountain
Hoping only to be
Left alone.
It's the best hope for
Among all the raised antlers.
YOU ARE READING
The Weight of Water
PoesiaThis is not my story. This is an actual book written by Sarah Crossan. All rights go to her. Armed with a suitcase and an old laundry bag, Kasienka and her mother head for England. Life is lonely for Kasienka. At home, her mother's heart is brea...
