The wave hits

as the hand a mridangam
That timbres and vibrates

with each slap 
The vessel of bodies

is not a womb
Yet carries cargo

of coolies conceived 
By an empire

built from bonded blood
Like the ghatam,

fired with ash 
They hiss and crack,

broken fragments 
Fly and flicker,

orange red black 
Sugar burnt, sweet

in harvest
But our grandmother tells

our mother of lies Sold 
as promises, truths hidden

in shame
An earth soured,

smoke in our veins
We carry and hold

these vessels, 
black waters, ash.