Only talked to her once
asked how she got her kinky hair
so smooth and glossy.
Mayonnaise, she said.
Eyes down.
Posture, that of a reluctant Princess
too elegant for Fourth Grade.
We called her Miracle Whip,
the miracle part not said in awe.
The word “whip” cracking
from an ugly part of us
we did not know to tame.
Everything about her seemed suspicious.
Know what I mean?
No filling in her sandwiches.
Hand-me-down uniform,
someone said from the janitor’s niece.
Those skinny brown legs,
kneecaps of teak,
dusted plum.
The bus grumbling to its stop
at her front door,
house made of Pixie Stix.
Know what I’m saying?
Fifty white faces
laughing out a school bus window.
Miracle! Whip! Miracle! Whip!
Something just didn’t seem right.