africa is a young man bathing
in the back of a prison fortress
the guide said “are you afro-american
cape coast castle holds a lot for your people”
and the 18th century clock keeps perfect
time for the time it has
i watched his black skin turn foaming
white and wanted to see this magnificent
man stand naked and clean before me
but they called me to the dungeons where above
the christian church an african stood listening
for sounds of revolt
the lock the guide stated indicated a major once ran
the fort and the british he said had recently demanded
the lock’s return
and i wanted the lock maybe for a door
stop to unstop the 18th century clock
“and there is one African buried
here we are proud of him” he said
and i screamed NO there are thousands
but my voice was lost in the room
of the women with the secret passageway
leading to the governor’s quarters
so roberta flack recorded a song
and les mccann cried but
a young african man on the rock
outside the prison where my people were
born bathed in the sunlight
and africa is a baby to be
tossed about and disciplined and loved
and neglected and bitten on its bottom
as i wanted to
sink my teeth into his thigh
and tell him he would never be
clean until he can
possess me