Peristasis poem

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She slammed the door.
On picture day, she slammed the door in my face.
I had spent all morning picking a dress, but she slammed the door.
She grimaced at my unruly hair, even though I wore a pretty yellow dress I spent a whole morning choosing for picture day.

I felt cold.
She slammed the door in my face, her big camera hanging
from her neck.
The camera hung from her neck and I felt cold, but she didn’t take my picture, and just slammed the door in my face.

She slammed the door in my face.
“Mixed children make bad school photos,” she shrieked sharply.
I whimpered as she slammed the door in my mixed face, sorry I’d make bad photos.
Through tearful eyes I watch straight-haired 3rd grade classmates smile, shortly after she slammed the door in my face.

She slammed the door in my face.
“Not Black or White: no picture for you!” she repeats.
Neither White nor Black, I hear “go back where you come from,”
before she slammed the door in my face.