Invaders: Mystery Space Riders Or, An Ode To Alan Kurdi
Poetry by Evan J.
You arrive in past tense. You hold brother, mother
and all the pieces of your father’s heart
in your palming hands.
You are boyness, you are endurance, you are oil
aflame on the ocean until every susurration is respired.
To write this poem, tears must wet my fingers and spark a keyboard.
I am shocked with every keying
but I’ve been taught to never move.
Poets, we are cowards
we could not have helped you
we are the mortar jammed under words
submerged by bricks of language
we will not stop a tank or the terrorism of teeth
and our rhythm will not help you float.
None of us could spot a fake life jacket from the real
we would all have died before you
but you should not have died
you should not have died, and we should never stop crying.
You should learn what killed you:
it was hope in the night lights of Kos only 4 km away
it was wind and the tumult of that perilous straight
it was a hard-boat still crushed in the waves
it was traffickers shit-out-of-luck
it was your father with no other options
it was Poseidon erect and irate
it was Assad, Abu Fadi, al-Baghdadi, Erdo an, Obama, Putin
it was Harper-Trudeau in electoral fisticuffs
it is a war most still don’t understand
it was the 8000 km between us
it was the colour of your toddler skin
it was fear
it was me
it was and still is the inability to see your full face.
This is an ode to a favourite child
using words that can’t replace the waning scent of a son.
This is a poem for the guard-boat I so wish had found you earlier
and for the hope that the captain could be a father.
This poem should absorb every placed blame
it should place fruit on your grave
it should refute the two-minute-news that cuddled you
it should be more sorry
it should give you swimming lessons
take you back to a park with a jungle gym.
This is a stark poem. It is not my place to clean you.
The only intent is presenting your unfathomable beauty
a three-year-old who could have ridden to moons.
In the most common media photos, Alan wears a red t-shirt emblazoned with the text Invaders: Mystery Space Riders. Tima Kurdi, Alan’s aunt, purchased this shirt for Alan. I am immeasurably grateful to Tima for her book, The Boy On the Beach.