them bones

them bones will

rise again

them bones

them bones will

walk again

them bones

them bones will

talk again

now hear

the word of The Lord

—Traditional

atlantic is a sea of bones,

my bones,

my elegant afrikans

connecting whydah and new york,

a bridge of ivory.

seabed they call it.

in its arms my early mothers sleep.

some women leapt with babies in their arms.

some women wept and threw the babies in.

maternal armies pace the atlantic floor.

i call my name into the roar of surf

and something awful answers.

■