Grace

 

I think in ten-point turns,

walk past myself,

blow steam on the windows

without drawing pictures.

 

You say I shouldn’t worry

because anyone who can spell

onomatopoeia

is destined for great things.

 

I think in lines and boxes.

You think in clouds and curlicues.

epiphanies and animation.

 

You say

“I was born like this,

look.”

And cross your eyes.

One fat curl unwinds itself

onto your cheek.

 

Puddles are happy,

you say.

Happy friend puddles.

Because they always land

in groups

you say

then grab my arm

and pull us into one

together.

 

by Alexandra Morris

Karamu High School