IN THE WAKE
when a ship sets sail
across a body of water
turbulence occurs beneath
the glutted belly
even the ocean births waves
in places unfamiliar
the bow pierces forward
a trail restructures the gods
of the atlantic
once, a vast portal
now, an atlas, un-made
a wake where it hadn’t been
objects in motion
never mourn what was killed
in order to be born
instead crossing continues with
the wreckage of sea—
sainted ocean, keep in memory
the self, who breathed
formed gills of atlanteans
a sopping procession
silting the silk of water yet
tide still running over
what tried to sever
a saline’d reflection
a slave ship hauls
bodies as cargo and
both the surface and ocean floor
rifts. even the clouds break
open in sobs. trauma
welts—swells the earth.
the past is not pass but vessel
people emerge from the bowel
but never the ship
now a grave
cast onto the back.
a wake where we have been, we
never mourn ourselves
instead we feast
instead we ritualize
the evasion of death
and the death itself, how holy
us who have not drowned
when they drowned us,
with a resurrection of bones
along our mouths,
us grinning, still.
what tried to grind
us into sand failed and
cannot keep us from surging
CHILDREN’S MARCH
Birmingham, AL 1963
“My gran use tuh tell me about folks flyn back tuh africa. A man an his wife wuz
brung frum Africa. Wen dey fine out dey wuz slabes an got treat so hahd, dey jis
fret and fret. One day dey wuz standin wid some udduh slabes an all ub a sudden
dey say, ‘We gwine back tuh Africa. So goodie bye, goodie bye.’” — Mose Brown
a high pressure water hose can take the head
clean off. on the curb—a pair of tinted glasses
small enough to dress a toy. in the street’s
marrow—a pigtail, wrapped like caduceus & still
fastened with beret. sky-colored uniform, each
with an arm cawing to a friend & the other limb
in the leaping throat of a K9. the teens skip
school to crusade—songs shrieking like squashed
berries. pressed skirts cadeting knees—patent
leather sunday shoes, glinting from the fire hose
& the body’s leaking grief. to shield against fatal,
go fetal—huddle the black of the pavement.
muzzle the face to the red brick of a storefront. spines
sprayed—pinned like a crucifixion—righteous.
the youngests, though, could not ground
themselves with their own child weight—
lighting them like feathers. see it from the window:
porcelain hoofed melancholy—waters—rising
them up— flapping in grimace —jetted black
birds—grinning little ebony figurines soaring
the sea. kum…yali, kum buba tambe—my god,
the children—did you see them? salt-blood—
they took flight.
THE PHILLIS¹, 1761
a vessel can be
a shipped prison
to which her purpose
is to haul pretty cargo
a girl, however prisoned
can be ship & cargo
a vessel can be
a shipped person
to which its purpose
is to haul precious cargo
a girl, however precious,
can be shipwrecked
a shipped person can
also be a vessel
to which its purpose
is to haul petty cargo
a girl, however priced, can
be both ship & cargo
a ship can also be
a prison vessel
to which her purpose
is to hide her pretty
a girl, however wrecked
can be a vessel
¹ “By what sweet name, and in
what tuneful sound wilt thou be
prais’d?” — Phillis Wheatley