Settler-Colonist Children of the Anglosphere

Watch this gang of children horse
Around plastic laminate
Tables at a fast-food joint.

Blonde or blond or just plain wheat,
Mousy, honey-colored hair,
You know the range, bluish eyes,

Of course, though also with range,
And sometimes amber or brown—
None of these hazel or green—

And why are we bothering
With all these surface details?
Historically, they mattered.

They’re all rooted in bodies
More or less as they arrive
And were made to signify.

The language had to be learned,
As did all of the stories
Of heroic pioneers.

And now what’s left of that mess?
A huddled desperate sense
Of being under attack,

For some, for others, a brave
New world, new people in it.
Come, trailing clouds of cobwebs

At your birth, your history
Coded to your name and hair,
However you sound or look.

You’re human and home to us.
We adore you, no matter
Your folks were done to or did.