For the beautiful ones yet unborn.

NIGHT EIGHT

I fall asleep

carrying Kwasi’s face

in my heart

and wake up

with a welcome peace

of mind.

DAY ELEVEN

When the waters calm

we watch with silent curiosity

as the men with no color

fill their bottles

with brown spirits

from large barrels,

play loud, drinking games

and stumble around

like lost dogs.

On day twelve

they drop

like too-ripe fruit

and sleep

long into thirteen.

And by the twilight

of day nineteen

they have added

something new

and cruel

to their drunken ritual.

NIGHT NINETEEN

Their feet bloodied

from the broken glass

of smashed bottles,

the men with no color—the ones

who do not pass out—each drag

a girl

from our cage.

When they grab Afua

I stand up

wrap my arms around

her waist

clamp my leg

over hers

try to stop them

from taking her

to the other side

but a hard blow

to my head

knocks me down

and my arms go limp

just as the world

vanishes.

IN THIS DREAM

a flock of big, black birds

with bright red pouches

and long, wide wings

swoop down

like angels

diving from the heavens

and snatch everyone

off the ship

except me.

One of them perches

on my arm

as if it recognizes me,

then flies off.

WHEN I WAKE

Afua is next to me,

tears

sliding

down

her face

like rain.

She stares       up

at the purpling clouds

moving   like an angry sea   across the sky.

For days, she is quiet,

distant, like our past.

With each nightfall

a little more hope

sinks.

THINGS HAVE COME TO THIS

The chant and cries below

echo louder than the waves

beneath us

stronger than the wind

above.

There is a storm coming,

and its edge grows closer,

darker

than the hearts

of the men

with no color.

Every time one of them dies

from some calamity,

more brown spirits are poured,

then the grievers kneel

with heads bowed,

peeking into

their clasped hands,

mumbling

hollowed words.

When one of us dies,

there is no ceremony

no words

no nothing.

They just toss them over

for the sharks

to feast.

Death is everywhere.

At night, I count the stars

to pass the time

and each time

there are less than before.

Nana Mosi says

that stars are the eyes

of the past

watching over us.

Each day

I wonder

if I am forgotten

by Maame and Papa.

I worry if yesterday was a dream

and this nightmare

is my future.

Things have come to that.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

When Afua does speak again

it is like my maame

leaving

for the daylong trip

to the market,

and reminding me

of all the small

and big things

I must remember

to do—from chores

to cleaning my teeth—as if

she is not coming back

for a while.

STAND TALL

There is hope, Afua whispers. The men below prepare to revolt.