by Carl Boon
Artwork by Alexa Gaffaney
Nobody on the shore
at Pomegranate Town, 6 a.m.
The beer cafes lie dark
against the sunrise and the sea’s
placid and without birds.
My daughter, asleep
in the back of the car, dreams
live starfish in her hands,
the evening we’ll be back again
with deflated toys in our bags,
families surrounding fires,
men drinking whiskey
in the starlight. I envy her
innocence, the bracelets
on her inadequate wrist.
It’s very early and we all should be
dreaming other days, other
ways to be happy, my father
whom she barely knew,
nine months dead now,
but he’s in her—how she dozes,
cognizant of nothing
save the buses rumbling past
to Gemlik, Istanbul, and Greece.
A really moving piece. It reminds me of a Peanuts comic I read a long time ago about how laying asleep in the backseat of your parents car is the most secure comfortable sensation in the world, and that once you reach a certain age you can no longer do it–that this security is something only for children. Thematically, it fits with this poem. I’m not sure if this is what this is about, but mixing that security with the hazards of fleeing a country as a refugee creates a truly profound image. I like this poem.