A child lies on the shore. He might be napping
but for his ravished clothes, his puffy skin. Small waves
that should be playing with his leaping feet,
dancing to his shouts of pleasure, now purl
around his legs, pull at the shoes
he is still wearing – tenderly, almost,
as kittens lapping at a bowl of milk.
The Mediterranean blooms with bodies
floating, names that will never be spoken again
except in grief, or rage.