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.

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