Their whiteness bears no relation to laundry…*
lard, onions, pastry,
cotton vests for a second baby.
Wind-picked rabbit skulls
and tic-infested ewes, have refused
to ingratiate themselves sufficiently
to be referenced. O for a knocked up
white with an improper hue
stolen from a blood-suckled
moon, tucked like a bump
up a jumper. White as a compound
too bulky for navvies to heave
from the slurp of the loam. Fractious
calcium, where skin chances on bone.
The pitch and resist of his cheek –
sticky as a fallen damson.
*The title of this poem is taken from ‘Magi’ by Sylvia Plath