Contrition
Blue room, books on a bookcase.
I see their spines from my napping level:
Folktales, and Hans Christian Andersen with beautiful pictures
Toys hidden in my closet, a cowgirl ensemble, boots and chaps
I like to dress up sometimes.
The big books are always a wonder to me
because I can’t read them yet.
And I was supposed to be napping on this afternoon!
But instead, I’m staring at the columns of dust motes circling by the window.
So boring and I have so much energy!
and my sister isn’t home, so I got up and wandered into her room
See her neatly made bed, and on one wall, a set of shelves.
There are the serious books she can read -
No one reads her bedtime stories any more.
At eye-level, glass and ceramic animals shining in the late sun
Little pig with flowers on its back, looking at me under pretty lashes
Horses galloping along, maybe a zebra among them
Miniature mice. Small things, matching my small hands
In my solitude, in her room, my mystified fingers picked up a horse
but it was so powerful, it kicked my palm and I dropped it.
So now, in pieces. Oh dear.
I ran back to my room, took up the napping position
stared at the ceiling, listening to a silent house.
Now I napped.
Awakened when I could hear my sister bitterly complaining, far away.
So I rose, slowly made my way down the stairs to the kitchen
where I saw my mother comforting her
I approached them, and they asked me: did you break this animal?
No, I said, I don’t know anything about it.
What teaches a six-year-old to lie?
Who built the family in a way that induces fear and covert planning,
in the youngest member who can’t even record a plan?
Very soon, they blamed our maid.
She was a good woman who had done her job in a totally ethical manner
for all the years she cleaned for us,
a reliable black person who eked out a living cleaning for families like mine.
For this injustice, for this false accusation, she left.
What causes an unjust accusation
to arrive in the wrong place?
I am truly sorry, Mrs. Stokes.
