This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Colby chapter.
My mother’s dream was not
Held in white picket fences
But in the rusted tin coffee can half-filled
With the copper sting of pennies pinching
Grinding her knuckles to ashes, bloody rashes,
Yet walking in the street was to hear
The crunch and crackle of crashing
Headfirst into a bathtub full of ick
Oil filling her nose and mouth and ears
Her skin color like a heavy coat
She just couldn’t ever shrug off
A shroud for a mourner, call the coroner
“We got another foreigner, geez
Haven’t you people done enough?”