I would like to tell the boy to look us in the eye, the cameraman
can do nothing with this angle, that what’s left is just more 
of the rubble of home he’s sitting on like the king

of a demolished kingdom. Around him, sheets of metal coil
under the objects they once sheltered: desk legs, window frames,
still half-open, and the innards of concrete, steel nets poking

from the sand, catching only wind. His knuckles rest
between mouth and nose in a classic thinker’s pose,
while the other hand is poised on his hip, fingers bent back

by an invisible bully. If only he had a treasure hidden
in that palm, some relic he could offer us now. We don’t want
to see that other child at the edge of the frame, or his fist;

instead, we’re waiting for the boy to square his gaze
and ask again, who’s going to teach me now? or hold up
his wrists to the camera, and cry mercy, mercy.

Marjorie Lotfi is a poet, performer and creative writing facilitator living in Scotland. She is the winner of the 2024 Forward Prize for Best First Collection with The Wrong Person To Ask (Boodaxe Books 2024) from which this poem is taken.

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com