By: Lahari Mahalanabish

The seamen swing,
in fatigued, fevered relish of the cradling in infancy,
couched in their threadbare hammocks,
the ship plunges into the reshaping trough of waves
spooned towards the sandy dash with a green rumple
on the horizon, to fill in the blanks of an eager nation.

The cargo of half-starved humans shoved out
of the stinking darkness and clumped upon the deck
under the scorching sun that sucks in their sap
along with Pacific froth, the whip swishes
and crackles on their backs, spurting blood
whose trail might swell into rivers
through the camps of generations.

At times, the wind bellows with the burdening
cries from ill-fated voyages creaking from the deep
and the zealous waves surge upon the deck,
spreading like a fine table linen, like the one
she was caught stealing for a loaf of bread –
she, the one with a swollen belly,
who is now retching over the railing,
bound by alert eyes; the fish thrashes,
scales in silvery judders of pain,
the sea-veined officers’ dead appetite whets
long after the last goose was slaughtered.

Under reddened gashes by the dagger edges of stars,
who knows what happens when time is unshackled
from the dungeon of the unknown that cannot be glimpsed.
For now, the stricken sea growls, with months full
of nights crammed into its depths,
and a gale whistles through a cargo stuffed
with homesick reveries, rattling the lids off craters.

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