Albino
by Eliza Callard
She’s burning her white tears down her white
face and onto my black arms. She has, today,
heard the word, and just as with any of these
slurs, it’s not the word, it’s the fear behind it.
The hate. I told Derek that she is the golden
sun-child of our love, but he didn’t believe me. Today
my child heard the name explaining her
fatherless six years, and the stares, and the giggles,
and prophesied the rest of her life. She
is a stalk of yellow wheat, and someday soon
I will have to tell her that she can decide to stand out
in a vase of purple velvet tulips or she can pass
among the field of grain. Or will she grow tough from
the winds, part of neither, part of both?
Eliza Callard lives in Philadelphia, in the house where she was born and raised. She likes a good hike and a toasty cup of cocoa at the end of it. She shares her home with a variety of family members, some furrier than others. She has been published in Stoneboat, Hobart, and Cleaver Magazine, and her full list of publications can be found at her website, elizacallard.com.