What She Meant
i remember
lime yellow foam -
lapping at the grass,
like a mad dog
and noticing stagnate thick films -
turquoise, varigated with halos
of pink and yellows -
how it spread, slowly
on the surface, of the Nanticoke,
when i disturbed it with stones
i was young, but nearly twelve
there was no place to be, except there.
all the best places were overtaken
with the stench of dying grass
and trash -
shards of sun-captured brown,
blue and green glass, small
bits of foil and granite
gave me solace -
some glitter, in my daydreams
of an end or beginning.
you aren't allowed to play
with James, mother had said.
you are much to old to play
with boys...
i knew what she didn't say
was what she meant.
i remembered that sign,
as i did sometimes,
the one that hung on a
restaurant door, in Georgetown.
mother had decided
to stop, 'for a quick bite'.
it was one of the first signs
(with 'big' words)
that i could read.
i was six, but the words burned
deep and red
into other years.
the block letters read:
coloured people,
not allowed
at the lunch counter!
the exclamation point
frightened me -
i remembered asking mother,
what colours were allowed
i guess that's when
i learned,
what she didn't say
was what she meant.
deborah russell
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