By Shawnelle Martineaux

Your shipwreck got to shore without crashing.

Your cargo was splayed and frayed by its unbelonging.

They were marked black and glistened

In the heat.

They were not home.

They made do.

There was no home to go back to.

But there was history to make.

And lives. For you to take.

And time. For you to keep.

Just like their bodies kept score.

Sweet sugar and hot tea was had.

Every burden, they bore it.

For you.

One day, your mirror cursed at you.

You are not the fairest of them all!

So, you clenched your teeth.

You swiped your pen.

And of livestock, you made men.

They were free. For your taking.

Their identities, for your making.

No expectation of them waking.

Just go. Be.

But freedom brought the kiss of love.

And eyes opened wide and

touched the horizon, wanting…

more.

With your earworms whirling

in their minds

they got back on your ship that you built

with their blood, sweat, and tears.

Your shores beckoned them home.

And, when they answered,

you pretended they were not yours.

They were marked black and

It was harsh against the coldness of your

grey gloom.

Their skin is just a vessel

at your border.

Mother. Land.

It carries your stories.

It speaks your truth.

The gnarled thing inside it is all you.

Do you fear what you have become?

Is it true that the same sun

that never set on my back

never set on your empire?

Was it not you who made me

an English child

at bedtime, cradled at your breast?

Why can’t I come home?

Why don’t you claim me like you own me now?

You must be too good for your own devices.

But I’ll be sleeping

in the conservatory with the other delicate

things

you conveniently forget to tend to.

Maybe one day in the spring sun,

I’ll grow into your prized courgette.

And you can peel me and see that I

am good inside.

Then, you can have me for lunch.