With the Russian-Ukraine war in the headlines daily and a refugee crisis growing by the hour, it seems timely to revisit a poem written a few years ago about those who risk their lives each day in an attempt to reach Europe via the perilous crossing from Africa.
FLOTSAM
The sea does not want her.
It takes the others:
her, it discards
half-dead on shingle-sand,
the reek of salty fear
on brown skin.
Gulls shriek
and quarrel overhead.
She lies face down
barely breathing,
a human starfish,
one black asterisk
referencing nothing.
Cruciform
on wet shingle,
she counts her stations:
hunger, terror, flight,
abuse, exploitation,
a merciless sea
crossed.
A too-small boat,
the huddled shapes,
fear, their common bond.
A heavy night-sky
bearing down.
Waves like white fists
against the hull.
Land
that does not want her
blurs like a mirage:
a half-moon cove,
gaunt trees
aligned like bars,
European houses.
She claws wet gravel,
draws herself
to her knees,
kneels to vomit.
Along the beach,
relentlessly,
policemen come.
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