i heard a child scream once,
and it was the sound of Algebra,
the Cold War,
but also a mango seed
scraping wood to etch grammar rules.
my privilege mirrors bomb threats.
i have three dream catchers in my room,
all of which were created by foreign hands.
my hands tell a well-kept secret,
notebook paper and straight-edged rulers,
pencils with erasers attached.
the mango falls from the tree and the tree
understands its nakedness.
the student drops out of school and the school
understands its cut budget.
Malala nearly died for her right to literacy.
who am i, insignificant, ignorant,
to rebel against a system whose brokenness
is so manically coveted?