From the Fishouse

I think first of thirst,—
not the lighted sprays sprinkling
domes of mist
over the small pond in my
gated community,
but of skin—
of black and white
photographs, public
drinking fountains
labeled COLORED WHITES—

of what my mother could quench
in her time and what
she could not touch.
And of the phone call
I made to her from college
my freshman year.
A history class at
Washington and Lee
taught the origins of
the sit-in movement—
segregated lunch counters
at North Carolina A&T.

You were there, I accused.
I had done the math
and it placed her
there, a freshman like me.
You never said anything
to us about it.

What is there to say about people
spitting in your food?
she demanded. And I remember
how, once, enraged, she spat
at me, my siblings, Your lives have been
what I’ve told you they’ve been
whether it was the truth
or not.

She has been gone two years.
Outside, uncounted
droplets from the fountain
hit the pond.
I stand inside at my window
and watch. My life
is this recording.