Her darkened parchment mingles with my white
fingers; I spin her. Cotton billows in the fading black.
Her reassuring smiles tell me it’s alright,
and remind me of another child’s light,
who bears my fair-skinned blood within her back;
her pastel parchment compliments my white.
Two girls, united by their age, dissected birth and right,
one raised in dirt, and one in cul-de-sac.
Assuring smiles tell me it’s alright.
But written pages darken black my sight,
as unjust newsreels rage about attack.
Her inky parchment clutches tight my white,
and sorry hands give long-awaited sight
to stories she can’t read: her schooling’s lack.
Their reassuring smiles tell me it’s alright.
But I think of Lily, growing up to write,
and conscience tells me none of this is right.
Darkened parchment hides behind my white,
assuring smiles tell me it’s alright.