The irons snap like fish
leaping on land; one day I
shall be a lark and speak
my name; one day the Igbo
fingers shall claw at the wood
like whispers; give me a breeze;
take me to a land with only
sand. One day the irons shall
burn my skin like larks chirping on
deck. Teach me to fear the
rain tracing a path down the
knots of my back; what are laws
if not shackles to drown under
like a world with only sand; take
this brand and sear my flesh
with it. Put these grains of sand
in your palm; teach me to fear
god; teach me to hate these fearsome
black hands and this black tongue;
teach me to hate these lips made
to drink the black earth; take me
to Charles Towne; take me far from
the rivulets drinking from the land
like a man buried in the legs of
a woman; take me to a land that
whispers: “The people do not dwell
here anymore. They’ve all gone.”
Toss me into the sea and let
me sink like a lode; teach me
to fear the touch of the earth
upon the bottoms of my feet like
witches heaping me with curses.
Forbid me from heaven but let me
be born again in chains; what is a
dollar but a distraction in
time; teach me the words in
this good book; take me to
Richmond, Virginia; teach
me to be a slave forever; teach
me to hate these Yoruba marks upon
my face. I thought the sail of
the ship was like a land with
no rain. I thought this stolen
land was like a whale snatched
from the sea; they say this land
is rich from Indian blood, it bathes
the land like a river. They say
Indian tears are like a kiss from
a god or perhaps a pat on the shoulder.
There used to be a river here but it
was drunk up; the Negroes drank it
until it was dry; they were dying
of thirst; they said: “Come and
see this land where the maize grows
so high you could climb to heaven,”
but all I saw were Igbo clawing at
the walls of the ship. I feel the
irons about my throat like being
hit in the head with a book; I hear
this foreign name like an endless stream
of curses bathing in sand; step into
the river and wash the sand and
the curses from your feet. The
thirst comes to me in the night
like a god dying on land; how many
years would it take to fill this
Indian lake with tears so I might drown;
I hear the cries of the Igbo and the
Yoruba like larks falling into the
sea. If you are born in a world
with no rain remember what rain
tastes like; remember that the touch
of the sun upon your back is like
being marked by a witch, but the
African kind of witch, a sort of
doctor. I hear the rain like fish
whispering on land; what is a
dollar but a distraction from the
pain that is Virginia; what does it
mean to be alive in a world with no
rain? Take these fifty bodies and bury
them deep, they are slaves that have
died; kiss the knots of my back; “Pick
this cotton and pick it good,” they
said. Turn my hands and see my sand-
filled callouses. Thank god for these
sorrows; speak my name, my Yoruba
name that cuts like a knife; teach
me to remember the rain; one day I
shall be a lark and speak my name.
Sean Flood is an African-American writer and poet living in New York City. His writing examines the experience of the Middle Passage. He self-published his first novel in 2016.
