Annette Morgan

THE LAUGH IS ON THEM

We watch them
Lowering my cousin
Into the ground,
Reluctant to turn around
And leave her
In that cold, windy place
Of fallen leaves and bare oak trees.

Poised to go, I heard
A voice behind me say,
“What is that blonde
Doing with that Indian?”
And I freeze,
Knowing I need
To be quiet.

But the laugh
Bubbles up anyway
Escaping from me,
Because
I’m not really blonde.
And
I’m Cherokee