I made love to you, & it loomed there
We sat on the small veranda of the cottage
& listened hours to the sea talk
I didn't have to look up to see if it was still there
For days, it followed us along polluted beaches
Where the boys herded cows
& the girls danced for the boys
To the moneychanger
& then to the marketplace
It went away when the ghost of my mother
Found me sitting beneath a palm
But it was in the van with us on a road trip to the country
As we zoomed past thatch houses
It was definitely there when a few dollars
Exchanged hands & we were hurried
Through customs, past the guards
I was standing in the airport in Amsterdam
Sipping a glass of red wine, half lost in Van Gogh's
Swarm of colors, & it was there, brooding in a corner
I walked into the public toilet, thinking of W.E.B
Buried in a mausoleum, & all his books & papers
Going to dust, & there it was, in that private moment
The same image: obscene because it was built
To endure time, stronger than their houses & altars
The seeds of melon. The seeds of okra in trade winds
Headed to a new world. I walked back into the throng
Of strangers, but it followed me. I could see the path
Slaves traveled, & I knew when they first saw it
All their high gods knelt on the ground
Why did I taste salt water in my mouth?
We stood in line for another plane
& when the plane rose over the city
I knew it was there, crossing the Atlantic
Not a feeling, but a longing. I was in Accra
Again, gazing up at the vaulted cathedral ceiling
Of the compound. I could see the ships at dusk
Rising out of the lull of "Amazing Grace," cresting
The waves. The governor stood on his balcony
Holding a sword, pointing to a woman
In the courtyard, saying, That one
Bring me that tall, ample wench
Enslaved hands dragged her to the center
Then they threw buckets of water on her
But she tried to fight. They penned her to the ground
She was crying. They prodded her up the stairs. One step
& then another. Oh, yeah, she still had some fight in her
But the governor's power was absolute. He said
There's a tyranny of language in my fluted bones
There's a poetry on every page of the good book
There's God's work to be done in a forsaken land
There's a whole tribe in this one, but I'll break them
Before they're in the womb, before they're conceived
Before they're even thought of. Come, up here
Don't be afraid, up here to the governor's quarters
Up here where laws are made. I haven't delivered
The head of Pompey or John the Baptist
On a big silver tray, but I own your past
Present, & future. You're special
You're not like the others. Yes
I'll break you with fists & cat-o'-nine
I'll thoroughly break you, head to feet
But sister I'll break you most dearly
With sweet words