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.