and somebody’s son
fully dressed, has stepped from the
Geneva express weary of playing a game
that others know best. Pillar to post to a beautiful
coast and no-one he knows as he sets down his
‘sac’ too heavy, too long on his back, drawn to
the lapping tide. Eyes only for the shift and swell
of its blue-reflected sky.
‘Let him die,’ cries a Londoner, wine glass raised
high, perched at The Grand Canal’s side.
‘Nigger merda!’
‘Vergewaltiger.’
‘Fuck ugefaangen.’
Their tirade grows bolder while the cold bites
his bones, shrivels memories of warmth in
a tighter canal and him hitting the sand with
a cry and a kick near some Gambian shack
while phones and cameras click on his
head bobbing down amongst Venetzia’s
inglorious leavings.
‘Feccia!’
‘Black rubbish… ‘
‘Je aap.’
Nor does he hear a thrown lifebelt’s slap
and another landing where he has no intention
of surviving. With a Tampax trapped in one
ear, a turd in his hair, Pateh Sabally has come
too far. His water-filled boots too much
ballast pulliing him back to a different
birth. A blessing, not a curse. An end to all
striving…
...
i.m. Patek Saballah January 22nd 2017.
updated by @sally-spedding: 11/26/17 08:57:48PM
