Whispering land, coffee
grounds, grains
of my grands
and great-great
grands, petrified
bones, gathered fire
wood, a cradled
bundle of limbs
in my limbs, the Congo
my cargo, the skin
of my ancestors, sewn
into the ruffles
of my dancing
shirt, the whites
of my ancestors’
eyes, painted on
my body, their eyes
on me from every
angle, every where
I go, the barely
passable road, the time
traveling upriver, the hours
of rowing, the past
ahead of me, its unbear-
able roar, the path
peppered in footprints
empty as ledgers
of mothers’, aunties’
sisters’ names, ghosts
clinging to me
dragged through mud
roads, coffee
grounds, my shaking
body, shaking every
body, the missing
women, missing
sisters, the missing
history, the missing
missing, missing
an earworm hissing
hissing, hissing