Spit

When my grandmother got married
strangers spit on her white dress
as she left the cathedral, hissing
Communist!

When I was 12, I spit on my friend,
a bubbly blob on her nose—her face, confused.
I thought it would be funny.
But what I felt was shame.

Around the same age, on a Ferris Wheel,
two older boys spit on me each time
their seat rose above mine.
My mother, oblivious, watched from the ground,
waving and grinning each time I passed.
I waved back, pretending nothing was wrong.

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