A Greater Loss
by Jenny Mitchell
The first report is of a dozen migrants –
eight men, three women and a child
battered on the rocks, boat a pile of sticks
floating on the surface with the dregs of clothes.
As the camera swerves, it reveals a house
beneath the waves, a small brick shack,
the kind a family builds by hand, enlarges
over generations, bodies on the roof.
A church is underneath the foam, a giant
baroque raft that’s sunk, people floating
near the steeple. When the camera pans inside,
there are children on the pews, at the feet of Christ.
Libraries are washed up next, empty now
of books, dirty water rolling into cabinets,
tables bobbing with computers smashed
against the shore as waves beat hard.
Museums start to tilt, artifacts drift off,
decorate the surf. Gold and silver goblets
sparkle in the sun, noble heads of bronze
weighed down by people clinging tight.
When the camera moves again, a woman calls
for help, pulls herself onto a rock, whispering
these words My country is out there. She points
towards the sky, a dazzling blue.
