When I Was Six

The Russians hated me, when I was six,

those people from that big red space

ten inches from a yellow USA

mapped on my classroom wall,

a red space that meant so little to me

as we marched single file, quietly and

quickly, to the hall and took

our places, kneeling on the floor,

one child in front of, behind, next to

another, hands holding our heads tucked into

little human balls, practicing those drills

as we practiced our numbers and letters, art and music,

preparing for them, their bombs, their hatred

of us, our hatred of them ensuing,

just ten inches separating us, us from them,

and tucked there, at six, I wondered

if they were practicing, too, their numbers

and letters and drills as we were,

little human balls huddled, afraid, fearing each other,

across ten inches of blue on a classroom map,

and I wonder even now, has anything really changed?