refuge

refugee camp, france

one of the more revolt­ing things i’ve been see­ing in these revolt­ing times is the con­tin­u­ing demon­i­sa­tion of refugees, attempt­ing to cross the eng­lish chan­nel from french camps, to get to britain. the far-right (and i include our home sec­re­tary, the egre­gious pri­ti patel in this) has behaved atro­cious­ly in this coun­try which i am, day by day lov­ing less and less as this lit­tle col­lec­tion of islands drifts clos­er and clos­er towards some­thing unspeak­able.

from the paris review

 

 

the refugee considers the faucet

by philip metres

after pamela argentieri’s “con­tin­ued per­sis­tence”

o arm that spurts flow­ers,

branch giv­ing birth to water.

o tree that bows down

and stays there, hov­er­ing

between sky and ground.

you anchor us to now.

we have walked so long

our home has nar­rowed

to the width of our shoes

and what we can car­ry.

and yet you, still ani­mal,

hol­low met­al

con­duct­ing an inter­nal

con­vo with move­ment,

you are endurance

in the still moment

of begin­ning, you are

antic­i­pa­to­ry beau­ty,

o instan­ta­neous riv­er,

com­pressed creek,

o brass well­spring,

invis­i­ble lake, o slake,

oasis in a tube, tap­root,

song of the mute, i bow

to you, and hold my hands

like a shal­low bowl

beneath your mouth.

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