Sometimes I invite a whole street
into my house. Boiling white rice.
Making curry chicken: what I
share of my mother I offer
all the neighbors. Even the boys
I am afraid will call me
nigger
in my own home.                                I open my door to the boy I see    w/ my good eye         
                                                                 & then I can't                          see.
The boy says
I have stabbed
your good eye.                                                   I forgive,                                                  say
                                                                                                                                  Come inside.

Blade twists.

                                                                                                                                  Come inside.
My eye doesn’t heal.

                                                                                                                                  Come inside.          
the boy:
point me to
my plate
of food.

He eats. I smile.

I  hear him licking his fingers clean.

__

This poem began after several rereadings of the Cyclops section in Homer's The Odyssey. I felt an empathy for the Cyclops & their traditions that Odysseus disregarded. I wondered the possibility of a quiet vengeance against colonialism, & ended up here.