NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 98

By ROBERTA HILL On Rhythm’s Edge We Know The Truth Moon plays a triangle on the rim world waves where a man-eating island smashes the shimmer and sinks. I’m no friend to that foam. Silence calls me to men and women thrown into Mother Sea. Some with leg chains, some unchained, too weak to fight sinking into blue crests, driven by the weight of loss, of longing for their land, so many lost in currents, men, women, children tossed overboard like logs. Grasping the leg of some body, I kick thick stir pressing chains and flesh against my weary back until a south current shoves us home Sand chaffs our backs where we stop on rhythm’s edge. Rubbing face, chest, belly, thighs and feet, I listen for whoo whoo whoo his breath to catch my body’s ember He chokes. We must rest and let those strands of foam harness their pattern as I break the chains that intended to yank his arms back into that maze where many have died Hang a hammock in the air then plan to sleep 96 Not I We end where others begin So many dragged themselves into our villages His words click a stick dance and I feel all my lost brothers haunt my happiness BRN-FALL-2013.indb 96 9/13/13 12:48 AM