To Colonel Custard and That One Weird White Woman That Approached Me Like I Was A Rabid Dog

Excuse me!  Excuse me!
Do you speak English?!
Do.  You.  Speak.  English?!
Crouched down and tiptoe stepping towards me.
Hands held out and wide-eyed with surprise.
It was so convincing I almost had the urge
to lunge and bite at her hand.
Yes,  I speak English.
An immediate upright and an
Is how my night started once.
Me attempting to help a stray dog.
The great white hope attempting to help me.
So long as I wasn’t rabid.  So long as I could speak her language.
So long as I didn’t bite.
I didn’t bite and she left smiling.  Comfortable and happy with herself.
I left, head shaking. Disgusted.
Colonel Custard we see you.
Hands trembling and shrinking so you don’t get bitten.
So you don’t succumb to something darker than you.
We read between the lines
and the poorly veiled racism.
We see the fear that seeps
from your defensiveness and hate.
We call you on it.
We tear down walls.
We exhibit works expounding objective merit.
We become your objective merit.
It’s ok.  Don’t worry.
I do speak English.
but I tangle with you and
I ride the beast you’re frightened of.
The one that bites.
The one that gets your job.
The one that takes your poem’s place.
The one you don’t want to understand.
I see you.
I see you.
I see you.
And I believe you.  Every fake fucked word you say.

Sarah Frances Moran is a writer, editor, animal lover, videogamer, queer Latina. She thinks Chihuahuas should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of the time. Her work has most recently been published or is upcoming in Drunk In A Midnight Choir, FreezeRay Poetry, Crabfat, Rust+Moth, Maudlin House and Flapperhouse. She is Editor/Founder of Yellow Chair Review. Her chapbook, I Am A Terrorist, will release this summer from Dark Heart Press.  You may reach her at