Sandpaper Tongues and Chewing Gum.

Sitting in her chair
she stopped
and thought about how
a black person had never
touched her hand or

never touched her ever.
She chewed her gum, gnashed
up and down,
spicy cinnamon, looking,
watching the girl's
dark brown and leathery hands

spread out to her
half moon nail beds that
hid the pink underbelly
of her palms.
Sitting, she hoped for
the turn of a shoulder
or the shuffle of a page,

or for their arms
to accidentally brush
against the other
like a dry brush
to a dry canvas or desert.

The plaited hair girl became water
for parched tongues
that scratched all
surfaces they licked,
sandpapers spongy and needy
clinging on to her, leeches.
They wanted something
other than blood.