I am your enemy now.
You will come for me tomorrow night,
gathering noisily with the others
outside my shuttered windows.
You will come to kill me, tomorrow night,
With a gun or a machete or a stick
or whatever it is you’re given.
You will watch afterwards
as they smother my wife in her screams,
and then you will rape my daughter,
you know, the younger one, the one
your son used to read out loud to
on the porch.
You will do it
because you are afraid.
Because you are afraid
that I will do the same.
That’s what he warned us all about,
the butcher, as he sipped his tea,
that big belly napping on his knees,
and he looked us straight in the eye
and wagged his finger.