Rachel McGladdery

Another Aylan

He’s missing mum – tears sliding down his bag-head face past chapped lips and a
missing tooth
and it’s not pretty
and he’s not a silent bloating boy bruising cold upon a gritty beach
his jumper stinks and he’s been pissed for three nights on
he shouts unlikely cockney sounding words
learned from whoever shouted them at him
and tracksuit bottoms and a pair of boots
he’s filled with supermarché bags
don’t quite endear him to the press
who called them swarms not quite a month before
and stirred the silt
now
beatific in their front page babe
slick like a seal
his fingers furled.

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