For that I never knew you, I only learned to dread you, <br />for that I never touched you, they told me you are filth, <br />they showed me by every action to despise your kind; <br />for that I saw my people making war on you, <br />I could not tell you apart, one from another, <br />for that in childhood I lived in places clear of you, <br />for that all the people I knew met you by <br />crushing you, stamping you to death, they poured boiling <br /> water on you, they flushed you down, <br />for that I could not tell one from another <br />only that you were dark, fast on your feet, and slender. <br /> Not like me. <br />For that I did not know your poems <br />And that I do not know any of your sayings <br />And that I cannot speak or read your language <br />And that I do not sing your songs <br />And that I do not teach our children <br /> to eat your food <br /> or know your poems <br /> or sing your songs <br />But that we say you are filthing our food <br />But that we know you not at all. <br /> <br />Yesterday I looked at one of you for the first time. <br />You were lighter that the others in color, that was <br /> neither good nor bad. <br />I was really looking for the first time. <br />You seemed troubled and witty. <br /> <br />Today I touched one of you for the first time. <br />You were startled, you ran, you fled away <br />Fast as a dancer, light, strange, and lovely to the touch. <br />I reach, I touch, I begin to know you.<br /><br />Muriel Rukeyser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/st-roach/
