concerning water
by Ashia Ajani
Mississippi delta, trill of waxwings cuts through daybreak’s vibrato
Morning brims with chance, Man’s predictability not yet redundant –
the burning hum of what might be tethered to what has been.
Hibiscus, bleached white sheets, blood in the water. Another shoreline retreated.
The first Black man emerged from a shell or, perhaps was pried from it
semantics debated by historians and marine biologists alike.
Once cephalopod, once saltwater taffy, once tap dancing to Scott Joplin
with a mouth full of sand. Almost African, deboned and sent up the river.
Stream scientists sought to define this hybrid species,
stumbled past a realm connecting the sea and sky. Dew drops
facing the Atlantic, ricochet of bullets seeks to subdue the ocean. Now,
we send dark skinned men to clear mangroves, think nothing when they return
gilless, their breathing halted, condemned to life on land.
How does one decide to stay? Or rather, how can one bear the density of history –
Between a world sliced in half by water, chasmed to the untrained eye.
At the edge of the New World, complex shapes and textures are reduced to stick figures.
Faith troubles the water. Water troubles the curl. To hell with drowning:
Ask the nautilus what it thinks of being brought to surface.
Morning brims with chance, Man’s predictability not yet redundant –
the burning hum of what might be tethered to what has been.
Hibiscus, bleached white sheets, blood in the water. Another shoreline retreated.
The first Black man emerged from a shell or, perhaps was pried from it
semantics debated by historians and marine biologists alike.
Once cephalopod, once saltwater taffy, once tap dancing to Scott Joplin
with a mouth full of sand. Almost African, deboned and sent up the river.
Stream scientists sought to define this hybrid species,
stumbled past a realm connecting the sea and sky. Dew drops
facing the Atlantic, ricochet of bullets seeks to subdue the ocean. Now,
we send dark skinned men to clear mangroves, think nothing when they return
gilless, their breathing halted, condemned to life on land.
How does one decide to stay? Or rather, how can one bear the density of history –
Between a world sliced in half by water, chasmed to the untrained eye.
At the edge of the New World, complex shapes and textures are reduced to stick figures.
Faith troubles the water. Water troubles the curl. To hell with drowning:
Ask the nautilus what it thinks of being brought to surface.
Ashia Ajani is a sunshower, a glass bead, a carnivorous plant, an overripe nectarine. Hailing from Denver, CO, Queen City of the Plains and the unceded territory of the Cheyenne, Ute, and Arapahoe peoples, Ashia is a writer and educator preoccupied with Black ecological ruptures. They are the author of one poetry collection, Heirloom (Write Bloody Publishing) and their lyric essay collection Tending the Vines (Timber Press, TBA) is budding.