LITMIR.BIZ

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prayers.

      The ship sailed on its way.

      No funerals.

       The ship sailed on its way.—

      Here is where I leave

      those sailors and owners,

      and you can forget

      about a happy ending.

      I know you want one,

      twenty-first-century-style.

      A soundtrack. Some ruffled

      costumes. An uprising,

      since there were plenty

      of those, the cutting

      open of white sailors

      and captains of ships,

      such as the mutinies

      on the Henry, the Neptunis,

      the Ferris Galley, the Brome,

      the Meeriman, the Little George,

      the Hope, the William, the Felicity,

      the Thames, the Mary,

      and the Jolly Bachelor—

      but this did not happen

      aboard The Zong when

      the murder of Africans

      began: the last group

      of victims leapt overboard

      to their death, when they knew

      what was coming—

      and whether the owners

      lost their insurance

      case or won, the Africans

      of The Zong drank salt

      at the bottom of the ocean,

      and millions of others

      were enslaved.

      How can anything

      erase that choking?

      Water and time cannot

      bury The Zong, and neither

      can a moving picture.

      My sleep is haunted

      by chains and catalogs,

      and I don’t give one damn

      if you grow tired of hearing

      about slavery.

      I will curse sailors and

      their willful, seafaring tales.

      Celebrations of Poseidon

      throwing tridents.

      His bare, pale chest:

      wet dream of the canon—

      I’ll chant of murder

      trailing through my nightmares,

      so that blood splashes

      when Spirits strut.

      Don’t you know that

      drowned folks will rise

      to croon signs to me?

      And anyway, I didn’t tell

      this story to please you.

      I built this altar for them.

FOUND POEM: DETENTION #2

       Michael Brice-Saddler, reporting for the Washington Post, December 15, 2018

      The 7-year-old

      Guatemalan girl

      who died in U.S.

      Border Patrol

      custody was healthy

      before she arrived,

      and her family is now

      calling for an

      “objective

      and thorough”

      investigation

      into her death,

      a representative

      for the family

      said Saturday.

      In a statement,

      the family’s attorneys

      disputed reports

      that the girl,

      Jakelin Caal,

      went several

      days without

      food and water

      before crossing

      the border,

      which contradicts

      statements

      by the Department

      of Homeland

      Security.

      … Jakelin’s death

      was announced

      Thursday by U.S.

      Customs and

      Border Protection

      after inquiries by the

      Washington Post,

      raising questions

      about the conditions

      of their facilities …

      CBP and Department

      of Homeland Security

      officials deny

      that the agency

      is responsible

      for what

      happened

      to the girl.

      The Trump

      Administration

      has also denied

      responsibility

      for her death.

      Book: After

      TO BE SOLD

      A parcel of likely Negroes imported from Africa,

      Cheap for Cash, or Credit with Interest; enquire

      of John Avery at his House, next Door to the white

      Horse, or at the Store adjoining to said Avery’s Distill

      House, at the South End, near the South Market:—Also

      if any Persons have any Negroe Men, strong and hearty,

      tho’ not of the best moral Character, which are proper

      Subjects for Transportation, may have an Exchange

      for small Negroes.

      — Boston-Gazette and Country Journal, August 3, 1761

      Father of mercy, ’twas thy gracious hand

      Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.

      — Phillis Wheatley, from “To the University of Cambridge, in New-England”

      Nine years kept secret in the dark abode,

      Secure I lay, conceal’d from man and God:

      Deep in a cavern’d rock my days were led;

      The

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