I want ink.
Pitch-dark, rebellious: my mother's hair
dyed twice. I, too, dislike
white; pluck it at first sight.
My first brush touched
the ink well and drank greedily.
I see them again,
words fattening in the copybook,
misshapen, lawless:

 

Then, I see myself running off
like the black viscous
dye left on her plastic brush
that I’d rinsed and rinsed, as the acid
burnt my fingerprints.
Is it clean? Is it clean?
And I said yes, and yes again
impatiently, so that she wouldn't
answer back.