On the way to the village, we watchedfrom the car as palm trees disappearedinto the past. I sat beside the coffin;my father dressed in silk was trapped inside.I knocked on the afterlife, onceto open the door, twice to bid him bye,thrice to say look at me,gift me the house of remembrance.You held my head to your bosom; I smiledfor the first time. Mother, we drove past a bridge,we watched boys dive into the allureof water. Here, you said, dead captiveswere thrown into the river. Beside the bridgethere was no stone, no marker, only canoestied to trees. Before us the past was a labyrinth;I entered its mouth. No mercy lived in my fist,only Black men, war chants in their mouths,glistening bodies, the people they herded.Those who died were left behind; what mercylives in water? What is devoured in darkness?Here, a boy sang of air. He held a wishbone,a dinner’s remnant.I stayed silent in history; the ropes cut throughmy hands. I stayed silent in the bargaining.30 copper bars for the men, 25 for the women,the boy looked at me, at the rope, before being sold.In the small hands of time, you said, Son,you are not guilty. Inside of me was a hole;within it I saw the ships, White men openingmouths of Africans, checking teeth for decay,writing down stout for those accepted,for those staring into water.In my mouth, the wishbonewas there. I chewed on it,wishing it away, wishingBlack spirits rising would descendinto water. Close your eyes,sprinkle salt, you said.My father was falling into the abyss.Hold me.The past was rushing into my veins.I wished nothing on the past.I answered questions of the dead.I am capable of terror.