Saltwater Demands a Psalm

^{Jamestown Beach, Accra, Ghana}

The moon’s gray whisks morning waves.
Groundswells glide and trade this 
silver snakeskin for sunrise.

            And we’re up, my crew and I. We’ve been up. 
            We’ve wagered the winds, traced the tides, 
            combed and pored over our nets,
            nursing any tangles or weathered gaps.

Our boats wait ready, licked
in kente hues.
Names like Happiness, Good Luck,
Nyame Dua, and Big Catch are branded 
onto their still-banked hulls,
buoyed at the heels of palm trees.

            We’ve come to shore singing, clapping, humming— 
            saltwater demands a psalm.

We owned a measure of horizon and 
funked with the tide chasing it 
during each morning catch— before
the barges came.

            Before the barges came and scraped our reefs clean. 
            We now vie with them for the final fish.

It’s a butterfish. We haven’t netted
any guitarfish or sandy grouper in months.

            It has to be a butterfish.
            They’ve been our village’s anchor since—

When I was a child learning to fish,
I asked my father if the water below us was dead.
He said, The water is only as dead as the bodies 
beneath, and alive as the bodies above. He reached 
down offering a palmful of saltwater; we both drank.
Swear to keep this balance.

            These aren’t the first ships
            coming to starve us. They won’t be
            the last. Even our last butterfish knows this.

And he’s merciful. He’s promised that we won’t 
have to catch him. He’ll come to us grinning and 
prideful.
And we’ll scoop him into a bucket of saltwater, and bring him back 
to shore. We’ll feed him and groom him, trimming his airy 
whiskers. We’ll dress him in purple kente like an Ohene. We’ll 
make festivals in his honor, make love in his honor, and name our 
children thus.

            And the day he passes, we’ll round up the village families,
            and lead them to sea. And with our boats, we’ll blockade
            the barges, and bury our last butterfish—no casket, no pyre.
            Just saltwater and a psalm.