My boy is eighteen today
He didn’t die in the shallow waters of a Turkish beach.
He wasn’t carried high on his father’s shoulders
at the storming of the Macedonian border.
He won’t sleep tonight in the subway beneath
Keleti station, nor will he run between cars
on the Calais motorway, or climb on the roof of a train.
Your boy will not see another birthday,
his suffering is over, his joy is over, his smile
is over. The bear he holds in the photo is over.
It keeps happening, over and over, on my screen
and in the water, on the road, the rail track,
while my boy wakes, and turns eighteen today.
What can I say?