She will run the whole way

this time.

When the sea voices tell her to—

chanting shanties,

mouthing driftwood, barracoon songs—

she will run 

the whole way

to the breakers.

She will leap the sea wall

when the voices tell her to,

the ankle bangles clanking  

against mosquito-worn flesh.

She could tell you their whole

story if you cared to hear—

if the voices demanded that 

she’d recite their names

and explain them across

the breaking tide, 

and breaking time,

and the clank of bangles she 

found one morning

lost in the cursed sands 

of the Outer Banks.

They had staved off tarnish and time,

ever-gleaming young, 

carrying the captive magic

from the womb of a middle-passage ship.

She wore them as art—

sensuous and hip—

against the flesh-and-bone of her leg.

Now, she must sing the songs 

of the ballast people,

their voices keeping time 

in her head as she runs

towards the crashing waves,

the sea wall’s wide-spread arms

and the oncoming tide.

​