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I can see it in her eyes.
She won’t be accepted –
the color of her skin too dark,
the accent on her lips too strong.
Life will be difficult,
trying to fit in to a world that so many say she doesn’t belong.
Hatred isn’t found
only in the blood stained living rooms
of murdered wives and children.
It’s in every glance,
every whisper,
every taunt,
every thought of
“What’s she doing here?” and
“Why are they in our neighborhood?”
And sometimes,
when things get quiet and still,
I realize that it’s my heart, too,
dying, but still holding on.
This poem © Kevin Walker. Published August 2012.
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