The Fury Of Hating Eyes

I would like to bury

all the hating eyes

under the sand somewhere off

the North Atlantic and suffocate

them with the awful sand

and put all their colors to sleep

in that soft smother.

Take the brown eyes of my father,

those gun shots, those mean muds.

Bury them.

Take the blue eyes of my mother,

naked as the sea,

waiting to pull you down

where there is no air, no God.

Bury them.

Take the black eyes of my love,

coal eyes like a cruel hog,

wanting to whip you and laugh.

Bury them.

Take the hating eyes of martyrs,

presidents, bus collectors,

bank managers, soldiers.

Bury them.

Take my eyes, half blind

and falling into the air.

Bury them.

Take your eyes.

I come to the center,

where a shark looks up at death

and thinks of my heart

and squeeze it like a doughnut.

They'd like to take my eyes

and poke a hatpin through

their pupils. Not just to bury

but to stab. As for your eyes,

I fold up in front of them

in a baby ball and you send

them to the State Asylum.

Look! Look! Both those

mice are watching you

from behind the kind bars.