“What are ya?”

Reading, spelling, mathematics,
science. The space
between the classroom
and the bag room.
Full of loud kids. “Eeuh, what are ya? What are ya?”
Yet again, one blocks
my path, sneering, jeering. “Eeuh, Jackson, what are ya?”

Little intellectual girl,
they don’t want to know
you’re a homo sapiens sapiens
like them.

Hold your spine straight,
lock eyes with the monster,
and say, loud and clear,
so all its cronies hear,
“I’m awesome, gorgeous and smart.
What are you?”