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what cannot be released is that loud kindred laugh

      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

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