She knew what the white whiskered voices said, the ones
who used her little white child's body no different than
a cigarette tapped from the pack and when finished,
stamped underfoot in a slow arc, back, and
forth...back, and forth...
But then one day right behind her there were
His black hands, firm at her sides,
lifting her little white child's body like an offering to
the fountain she could not reach,
and no white man had ever done that.