Days of the week

August-September-October-
November-December-January-
February.

Seven months.

At first it was hello
and a brief acknowledgment.

Once.

Now you will not meet my eye
so my hello falls empty
into the air
and lies trampled at your feet.
Three of you
who cannot see me.
You bump into me without an “excuse me”
You push your way past when I am in your way
Because I am just a passing moment of resistance.

Your children
don’t look either.

Your daughter steps on my foot and keeps on going.

And those black girls
you call “cutie pie”
and “tell your mommy to call me”
and “we’ll get together soon to play”
they don’t look either.

Not at their skin.
Not at my own.

Just at the beautiful glowing whiteness
that shines like a beacon
while everything else
is plunged into the dark.

Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday.

You tell me I must be mistaken
because people who adopt kids of color
are so open minded and so loving
to give those people a home.

Seven-eight-nine-ten-
eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-
fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-
Don’t look.  Every hour, every day,
every week, every month, every year.

Don’t look in the mirror.

My face is repulsive.
Don’t look.

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