do my ancestors know the dead?

do they glide over the water into foreign lands

and greet their ghosts?

do they know their names and their stories,

their lives and their legacies?

i think of the thousands of new dead growing each day

in the Congo and Sudan and Ukraine and Palestine and

every hood everywhere and

and and and and

and i wonder if my ancestors are good neighbors

which of our foods do they prepare for them?

what greetings will they share?

im sure they share joys

easy moments amidst hard fought lives

but their griefs must carry a special weight

is it lighter or heavier to know

you did not suffer alone?

that neither geography nor generation 

could outreach your master’s whip?

do my ancestors cross the ocean

with new horrors held in their throat

and place them in my hands

to see what weapons i make?