As she twirls the rope of hair
in her nail tip, she’s not delicate.
It's round in shape, like the way
her missing brow furrows
: a charging shade of brown.
Dark, weighted, barring.

“Ms. Rita! Ms. Rita!”

She scares me still.
I sit down beside her and watch a twitch.
Something in the corner of her mouth.
Her lips: romp and pink.
As she moves them slowly,
girthed gape in the wake of a reprise;
she doesn't chirp or grin out loud,

She smacks!
She doesn't look happy.
She never does.
She calls my name.

So:

I tuck my skull between my knees
and burst brown the deep auburn.
As her eyes fix training on me.
She calls me to the front.

On the board.
White and then green.
Powder, powder.
She lends me the stage,
to which I bear only fright.
So I shrink.
I shrink.