My nephew’s hands are black with charcoal

My nephew’s hands are black with charcoal.

He’s crying because the sky looks like coal.

I tell him it’s fine, but I can still hear

Mrs. Gable’s voice, sharp and near.

'You’ve muddied the values,' she said to the class,

holding my paper like a piece of trash.

The smell of wet paper and cheap white paste

is a thirty-year-old bitter taste.