Spit 

In ninth grade, while standing

in a lunch line, a white student spat

on me, a quiet, shy boy, the darkest 

of five Negroes in the school.

I felt the thick, slimy glob 

stinging the back of my neck.

I felt the sticky wetness

when I reached back to wipe it.

I saw white faces smiling like clowns,

some snickering with a dare. 

I wiped my hand on my shirt,

put my hand to my mouth and tasted spit. 

I put my hand to my nose

and sniffed the pungent odor of spit.

I didn’t go to the principal’s office

to say what happened.

I didn’t tell my white teachers

or my parents or neighborhood friends.

I swallowed white spit in every breath

and silent cry. Racial hatred: 

never more bitter, never forgotten, 

still haunting, piercing, scarring.

Originally published in Hole in the Head Review