IGNOTE TOMB
Ivan Pozzoni
Corpse No. 2,
the shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina,
hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands
worn under red surfing bermudas.
Corpse n.7,
muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach
Marrakech hash maps in my pockets,
scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers,
led me to the mouth of the abyss.
Corpse No. 12,
‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’,
I don’t remember who was shouting it to whom
not being written in the Koran:
I too died invoking it in vain.
Corpse No. 18,
retreating on the roads between the dunes of Misrata,
in thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy missiles,
and dying of water.
Corpse No 20,
although nomads, like me, sway
on desert ships, detonated fluids,
never will they get used to drowning.
Every grave of the unknown migrant
whispers that it is hard to embrace
a death that comes from the sea.
