for Mama Chola, Mami Wata, Yemaya & Oshun
New Brittania, 1773 Children slipped tools to the middle-deck men, who swung refrains against iron freeing our limbs to overtake the deck hands. Rebellion riffed ecstasy under pour-drenched doubt, if only a matter of long minutes, a short hour at most. Regardless the outcome, we forswore return to underbellies but promised some part of earth our ash as black powder set aflame. The brilliance of fire on the skim of river! Elements existing where they aren’t supposed to be—their wills explosive revolution. And so it is with liberty as with alchemy; two strange sciences, indeed. Relating to freedom a fire on the river is as good a burial site as any mud casket red clay dare cake over our unenslaved vessels.