Alicia rounds the camp. 5 a.m., the call.
Voice slurred and fuming as she buggers
down the beach.
At Mandamados, she reared
a boy in each hand: Ali Reza, darling,
you’re a thief.
Returns, the manager,
orders toilets to be dug, tables repaired,
at her command the gate is given a fellatial lick of paint.
Fuck it.
Her bosom neat, smart, from her shirt-
front she pulls
a fifty-dollar note. Ali Reza,
where can you look, when she passes without so much
as a glance, hopeful, like us?
Skala Sikaminias, Lesvos, June 2016