The Bouri Light
In the dark, using the door frame
as a stanchion against the rolling swell,
and the wind and rain, the light
seemed alive. Others saw it first—
just after midnight—when our boat
was still sixty miles out, working
a determined course south to Libya.
When our shift began hours later,
we watched from the flying bridge
where the light remained a brilliant
flicker to our west. But by dawn,
the light of the Bouri oilfield’s gas flare
disappeared into a steady column
of smoke. Some traffickers tell
the refugees packed precariously
into rubber rafts to guide by this flame
when they leave under the cover of darkness
from the beaches of Sabratah. Others lie—
they tell the refugees that the light
is the glow of Europe’s cities, of Italy,
though truthfully these are still hundreds
of miles away. History is filled with light: stars,
fires, signs. Leander drowns crossing
the Hellespont to see his lover Hero
because of a wind-snuffed lamp.
The Romans burn Carthage to the ground.
Leave a Reply