humanity split along colonial charms [virgin girls
in one cell do what you wish] double back to naming
gris-gris town-crying in hell place your hands on the bone
map of fifteen million [women with fallen breasts in another]
trapped in a century’s enlightened whims
forgive these men of three centuries ago according
to the tenets of baptized slave ships forgive forgive
or do not [no children unless that is your taste]
THE TRANSATLANTIC PROGRESS OF SUGAR IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
I own I am shock’d at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves …
I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
— William Cowper, from “Pity for Poor Africans”
oh
peerless
smell of cane
cloud on triangular
horizon whip trilling a red
aria molasses the smelling hull
& chained bones the practical sharks
trailing hoping for new bodies overboard
(dark/
dark/pale/
dark/pale/dark/
dark/exchange/fresh/
exchange/flesh/exchange/
fresh/blood/blood/blood/blood/
dark/dark/pale/dark/pale/dark/exchange/
flesh/exchange/fresh/exchange/flesh/blood)
&
the sea
taste blessed rape
hollowed burn & brand
some girls mostly boys this holy
trinity of “godless dirty savages” island
patois rum down a throat lump in some tea
science of journey & the peerless smell of cane
ILLUSTRATION: “STOWAGE OF THE BRITISH SLAVE SHIP ‘BROOKES’ UNDER THE REGULATED SLAVE TRADE ACT OF 1788”
There is no air.
Closer. The stinky aria.
The bodies’ relentless outlines
on either side.
Above, below—
at some distance, the appearance
of Kente’s intricate bands, or,
a longed-for version of what
a village potter might throw.
I dream of breath,
the stealing from
pretty faces, the smoothness
of the best chocolate.
A tweakable, selfish nose.
A body is some body. (I know that.)
And theft?
The hoping for the death
of somebody else.
Not of my family.
Not of my tribe.
My Maker up there,
please, make the one
next to me die. There is no air.
Give me a teaspoon of life.
I don’t care how.
I don’t.
ACCORDING TO THE TESTIMONY TO THE GRAND JURY OF NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, BY SAILORS JONATHAN CRANSTON AND THOMAS GORTON, AFTER THROWING A NEGRO WOMAN (REFERRED TO AS “WENCH”) ALIVE INTO THE SEA, JAMES DEWOLF, CAPTAIN OF THE SLAVE SHIP POLLY, MOURNED THE LOSS OF THE GOOD CHAIR TO WHICH HE HAD STRAPPED HIS VICTIM
c. June 15, 1791
First Question:
Was it a ball and claw with an embroidered seat
[mercy] that brought on the captain’s grief, and not
a common stool, or a slat back, arched or straight,
the high exaggeration, or a Windsor, which is interesting,
too, as the slender rods keep the spine from leaning
far away from the center of gravity, a force that had been
discovered a mere century and a half before, an infant next
to the trade plied by this rich man who would grow
richer and stay free [mercy] and find something as precious
as sweet water next to endless salt that made him
mourn the loss of the craftsman’s whistle, that moved him
in his duty—and was he afraid, for had Smallpox run
through his crew, the inevitability of insurrection [mercy]—
forced him to touch the wood’s brown skin one last
time [mercy] and pray for the sap’s essence soured next
to the assumed-to-be-but-not-proven diseased
Negro wench strapped to it, blindfolded and gagged
[mercy], to inhale the stinking combination, a defilement
of such delicate embroidery, brocade stained, the waste [mercy]—
is that what made him throw so good a piece
of furniture into the sea, and watch the sharks take
her into their mouths?
Second Question:
Was that beautiful chair walnut or cherry
and were there carvings along the arms
and legs as well?
CATALOG: WATER
The Zong, 1781–1783
I know I’ll try your patience,
as I have for several years:
When I talk of slavery,
you’re going to sigh
impatiently: Not
this black woman again.
And I’m going to ask,
do you go to church?
In the Bible, there’s nothing
that curses the holding of slaves—
or servants as they are
euphemistically named.
There are displays:
men with no say-so,
eunuchs casually cut,
children forced to play
with others, hoping mates
don’t fall down