He floats there near the bottom, Dragged and anchored like a ship To seabed by rusted fetters, Down where ***** shuffle a slow Ribbon dance, twirling black seaweeds And long grasses, Where they snap out a rhythm In solemn beatnik fashion to mournful Whale songs like low saxophone moans, And where the disapproving clucks Of dolphinsβ tongues echo In quiet communal protest.
His body floats bloated in brine, Cheeks puffed like wet bread, Skin grey and shadowed blueblack, His face slack, Broad chest beaconed out of dark waters By dim pleated streams Of ocean light.
An elegy for those slaves thrown overboard during the Zong Massacre of the Middle Passage.