The Burden Of Being White Poem by James McLain

On the white sand a lonely dark lock she stands
and clouds over head a rich fragrant smell.
More butter brown but darker to me she is yet
and the buckets I carry,
grow too heavy for her to lift so I Am.

Why can it not be for a tree that cracks the earth
like when a shovel moves the soil
and squatting over the bushes leaves a rich
something like a pealed banana
and it is a secret, I need never to touch it she does.


In my hand are the acorns I came across
I toss them up and down looking she is I am keen to show
but I remember from my childproof world
that the pine tree has different looking roots
why some can become lost in the coiling majestic oaks
climbing down over the lips to drift just over them once.

Singing under my breath I wonder what ever became
of my grandmothers whale bone button, yellow with age
when last I saw it the holes evenly spaced were the
woman even then,
thinking back to my nannies cold milk and her daughter.

My skin next to hers seamed more like butter pecan
than plain chocolate and vanilla,
and lemongrass upon which when we earned our iced tea.
Her buttocks know now and knowing I'm white would I mention.