Ahmed’s sitting with his fist in the books.
Sixteen weeks he’s been waiting, handling
the stories all of swords and fish, of
what they eat beneath the waves: dead men’s
fingers, jellied eels, plastic casing
for a glass eye he found on the beach.
His mother is – where – in the pages
he holds as if they might turn to salt,
bloom into crystals, like spreading ink?
Ask what he’s reading –
                                      he’ll break your teeth.

                       *
Suleiman, your breath stinks. Of smoke, of
drink. Though you’ve not a cent or dinar
to your name, there’s money burning holes
in your hands you peer through. You ask, so
I buy you hair-gel, and you eat it,
believing in the alcohol. It
...