rocks tiny feet,
caresses small hands,
steals breath and rests
tiny bodies on the shore
where they’re at peace,
but out of reach
of their father’s desperate grasp.
rocks small boats,
of dubious sanctuary
and with each wave it tosses on the beach,
points foaming fingers at those
who turn faces from the tragedy.
I decided not to attach the iconic photo of Alan Kurdi to this poem out of respect. Instead, here is an interview with his father describing the tragedy.