It's Sunday by Sally Spedding

Sally Spedding
11/26/17 08:53:09PM
9 posts

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!’


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.


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



i.m. Patek Saballah January 22nd 2017.

updated by @sally-spedding: 11/26/17 08:57:48PM