Peter Boyle Poems
Seven years old,
on loan to an uncle
and a bundle of cash went missing.
For three days locked in a room, beaten.
The golden orbs of pennies roasted in an oven
removed by tongs
glisten on a child’s skin
as she screams and screams.
These round white scars
that remain even today
without the shadow of colour
with only the ash’s afterglow.
After telling that story
you burnt your hand on the iron,
burnt it yourself,
your punishment for breaking silence.
You rushed to the balcony but they pulled you back inside.
The mountain beyond that pass has no name. It is too old for us to name it. The sea has the same colour as the sky but the mountain has the same colour as sand. Sand is not earth but a fluid shoreline that leads to the great cities. When we are tired we buy up land on the edges of the great cities so we can sit and watch the insomniac journey of sa