Aboard the Brookes, 1789

Tonight she dreams of her village Woven in her thoughts as reeds in a basket Her brown hands clinging to her child Suckling, its black eyes shimmering Its mind transported to a space where grass Grows golden And air Fizzles at the touch of fingertips Grass bends beneath her feet Ravens soar low Seduced by the strings of a kora She wanders to the clearing Where trees hang low in slumber Where time whispers of a wilderness No number branded To that lion Roaring in the hot wind Only, the stench of dead meat She shudders As a young gazelle lays docile, Striped eyes watching vultures Descend At dawn, she saves the bones.