Three Black Kids
two boys, one girl –
her with her little yellow t-shirt,
all limbs hanging out four corners;
dangling sass in front of anyone who cares to notice
and those who don’t.
only 9-years old.
those boys with their whiter-than white grins,
powerful lungs bursting.
don’t step on the crack
you’ll break your mother’s back
4 legs jumping memorized lines,
proud to be 9-years old.
denim short shorts –
untrained in hugging new legs –
with a tiny butterfly stitched on the rear;
tossing short playful smiles
in all the right directions.
is she already 9-years old?
two boys, racing basketballs clumsily,
not noticing the way neighbors do;
how braids and barrettes will remind them of boundaries,
of definitions,
of what they can’t be, can’t have, can’t think about.
and only 9-years old.
