Undelivered Message to the Sky: November 9, 2016

You were in my dream last night. Titanic falling.

Every cop siren pocking your blue. Shots fired

fired far above my head by trembling men, and then

a terrible rain.          Still, you sank,

and all the creatures bowed—except the humans.

We broke ourselves screaming, but there was no sound.

In that silence, something wicked came aloud.

Before you landed, nothing left but littered,

gaping mouths. When I woke up,

I felt it. A twitching in my teeth.

The rumble of a nearby rapture. I opened the blinds

and a pack of white women were wailing down Maple,

crying into potholes, writhing in the street

like worms. One saw me, then the wails grew

and turned into a chorus of sorry sorry sorry

so sorry we’re sorry and I wished Yemoja

would sling an ocean out my throat. But all I had

was English—blindfolds, trick knives,

no real magic. Nothing in their language

makes them disappear. That’s why the guns

and cages. Why they cut our tongues. Because

we would call, and you would come.