Human Capital
by Hera Naguib
Tide-slurped, the shore
rocked my father’s thirst,
eyed the day he, too, will
foray fishwards, his spine
full-mast, borderless as salt,
the ocean beneath him
his own deep-storied calling;
waters whistling whistling
for weeks the big catch no
matter the bribing coast-guards,
no matter the sea-gods'
cussing. My father thrummed
for distant coasts, tax-free
income, the day he too
will whip up a concrete
house on his shoreside
to vie for, a boy too green
to read what the ocean
before him archives: assets,
seized passports, obscene
fees middle-men pimp from
those lost to richer shores,
lost, in thousands, to mega
cities they raise with ripped
palms, to filthy labor camps
at the backwater where,
ten to twelve, they sleep, hemmed
in by stray cats, rations,
and roaches. But a boy, my
father hungered, as a boy
will, for he knew the sea
is a tycoon, glib as oil,
and from eastward, he loves
how it murmurs his name.
Gorgeous storytelling through your seamless lines. I can hear the Ocean murmuring my name now, too.