I know I am not supposed to be,
But I am still a little angry
at the world—
for not knowing me.
Not knowing I walked a heavy mile
to the neighbors house, head down,
to fill old jugs with well water,
My arms stretched like rubber bands,
the water sometimes tasting of spoiled milk.
I washed my hair in a bucket, outside
in fall the water was like icy
fingers of the dead on my scalp.
I cried.
The other bucket made me gag
I was never to talk about it.
I didn’t mind sleeping on the floor
except when I was stepped on.
I was always hungry
but the cupboards were locked for rationing
The bread was counted.
I took the punishment anyway for eating it
and ruining the families supper.
I am not angry at my parents
for taking the groceries
out of the bed of someone elses truck.
Or at the children—teasing—
biting—cruel, except the one who spit on me.
I know I am not supposed to be.
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