Melted
(this poem is currently in competition)

The fan would whirl in the hot hazy summer light
lazily slowly on a Sunday
high above the heads of the congregation
�in the middle of big Motown.
We�d be proper children for Grandma�s peppermints
and stand to sing in between tall pews.
We�d sing loud.
Everyone would clap:
clap on their own beat;
clap hard and loud;
clap deep and devout.

The bullets drove us away
scattered doves from a blessed nest.

Then they sent me to camp for long summers.
I remember being the Indian with long hair
and lighter brown eyes with a tint of green.
Their thin ebony hands would braid my hair,
would dress me up
and near-black eyes would sparkle with fun,
call me Barbie and smile.
We�d go to the little white chapel at nights.
We�d stand and sing,
we�d dance and sing loud
and we�d all clap:
clap heavy and hard and fast
and sing all over the place.

Adulthood called me away
swift like morning air to the happy dreamer.

Now I cringe as
the brethren try to clap
on the on-beat
one and three.

Slowly I have become a tan smudge
in a small world of snowy white.

copyright 2001 by devon