after reading khaled hosseini’s sea prayer
carolyn martin
Before I could read
or knew the word refugee,
my Russian father tossed me
into waves along the Jersey shore.
Safe in his sight, I learned
to navigate – over, under, with.
No need to pray to any god.
Here, now – miles of time away
from sand and waves and my father’s eyes –
Hosseini’s not-for-children children’s book:
On Syria’s sea edge,
a father holds his son.
Rumors of wild flowers,
olive trees, goats and cows,
market smells, a thousand
boyhood dreams drown
in city ruins where craters
masquerade as swimming pools
and believers and non-
share slits of sun slipping
through bricks and beams.
Dogs are feral now
and Death sleeps in every house
in every room and I can barely
bear to read the father’s prayer.
All he asks? When land slips
away and their boat heaves
and tilts, safety for his child.
A simple parent’s simple plea:
safe passage for his son.
But, I want to scream,
what’s this praying worth?
When indifferent gods have failed
to guide ten thousand souls
across indifferent seas,
what is praying worth?
I snap the book shut and conjure up
my dad. We grab our bathing suits
and crash through resistant waves.
Bio: Carolyn Martin’s poems and book reviews have appeared in publications throughout North America, Australia, and the UK, and her fourth collection, A Penchant for Masquerades, was released in 2019 by Unsolicited Press. She is currently the poetry editor of Kosmos Quarterly: journal for global transformation. Find out more about Carolyn at www.carolynmartinpoet.com.