The First Photograph
When Aylan Kurdi’s photo splashed across the waves,
it was a scoop, a spotlight on refugees, a beacon of hope
for better treatment, more welcome ways. It became
Sea Prayer for parents casting their children to sea in light vessels.
But nothing changed. It was a false dawn. Children keep drowning.
Here in Bethlehem, lives are poor, government weak.
A concrete cordon of wall dominates, not for our security mind,
but as shutter and blind to lives despised. We are occupied
by those whose minds pre-occupied by counting our threat,
known by numbers, never names. Our lives are poor,
our movement restricted, often imprisoned for raising flag,
hand or stone, getting by with our whittled olive tourist trade.
When reporters came from way out east, that was our moment,
that Aylan Kurdi flash. Three came. They’d heard our plight.
and noted our views, their reports were carried in paper news.
Their attraction, they said, was a star, a pin prick in a night sky,
inspiration for their camera and that first photograph, a baby
captured, strangely focused, fast exposed as a flash of light.
That was the image of us. It sold and sold. going world-wide,
framed, kissed and even enshrined, the light of the world,
while we still in darkness lie. There was a child, a shot in the dark.
Because of that aperture in this little Goliath walled town
where streets stay dark and soldiers still count their enemy,
we picture endurance in that light relief, that blink of an eye,
that pin prick in the night.