By | 31 October 2021

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.

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