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.
I don’t know how many things there are in this world that have no name. The soft inner side of the elbow, webbed skin between the fingers, a day that wanders out beyond the tidal limits and no longer knows how to summon the moon it has lost, my firstborn who gazes about himself when the TV dies and there is a strange absence in his world. I was loo