Mary Gilonne

Writers for Calais Refugees

Mare Nostrum

Shoe laces tie the dead tighter than life.
We raft on their skin, how can flesh float
when boats shatter, wood, ribs and bone.
Hamid, swollen brother, hollow gourd,
the salted body of you drifts, whitens tears.
My hands are cups of waves and piss
and all the sky hangs grey as glass.
I never knew the baby’s name. Gaza, Syria.
Her eyes are closed, turtle, fish.

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