My dear fellow caucasians of Pontins,
I understand the child perched on my back
Has Asian eyes, a darker type of skin—

but as I launch into my breaststroke
to carry him a full length of the pool,
please don’t stare or let your jaw go slack

as if I’ve grown another set of balls
across the wrinkled length of my forehead.
And though I’m not a follow national

I seem to tap into some primal dread
of tangled bloodlines, mixed up tones of skin.
My fellow honkies, put your fears to bed!

He’s the blood nephew of my next of kin,
no need to bolster up the National Front.
Although our Irish Filipino genes

will have your jobs and homes in seven months.


Canto XVII

My nephew dips his feet into the surf
and digs his pudgy toes into the sand,
and when the time comes to carry him off

he vents his rage by gobbing on my hand.

Canto XVI

On the southeast edge of broken Britain
our nephew scrawls the word “bum” onto sand
then smiles for the shot, as blameless as a kitten.

We sweep the beach at sunset though we planned
to wolf down greasy piles of fish and chips
but found the shutters down on shops and stands.

There are no oil rigs or passing ships
to pepper the horizon’s bare expanse
that flares amber as our mother star dips—

its final dose of photons find the lens
at edge of country, season, edge of day;
provides a feast for almost every sense,

then we resume our quest for takeaway.

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