for Mama Chola, Mami Wata, Yemaya & Oshun
Myth of the Flying Africans, 1803 Body, when the sea hit the base of our neck our spine, a wherry, sank under its cargo. Our markings became homeless shine. We abandoned earth with dignity, severed our ties and breathed in salt. The burn, intense, purged memory of that keep and my mind wandered to the others— above, below, at my side—singing water spirit brought us, the water spirit take us home where our sounds make meaning. Soon enough, thoughts scrubbed dim. Body, we awoke in a trough after being wind-driven and as white sharks swam leisurely by, we noticed, unlike on land, they couldn’t possess inch of us.