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Whites of the Eye

Black boys beat my brother
& he bled all down the hall.
I was wearing a towel &
mum held him like Madonna
clutching at her child.
She bought a painted porcelain eye
so to protect us against the devil 
& nailed its chain above the door.
Next day the house was broken in.
They stole the stereo & left 
a cloven boot-print on my bed.
‘Maybe-it’s facin wrong-way about’
mum said to me and little brother.
I turned our eye toward the street.

Ever after we waited couched 
before our tv screen, 
pale & oddly propped:
three thorns of pus upon a pimple.

Go to Luke Carman's profile to read more poems