Coastline broke into forest into village, seas
rolled in uninterrupted waves. Somewhere,
I insisted on being born. Somewhere, countless
tribes called each other by name. Somewhere, a black panther
inches ever closer to its prey. Somewhere, the sun is a halo.
Cameroon is a whisper in my blood—the ancestry kit tells me
as it uses DNA to glue me back together. Can it catch
long strands of lineage shucked and punched to pulp? Somewhere, a clot

rubs its rigid way into my veins. It calls itself America.
And the seas were parted with my body over and over.
Centuries are cut into the skin stretched across my womb. Will
every lifted voice be silenced? When does a

theory become a threat? I return to the coastline. Village. Bright arc,
halo of sun. All this has been bloodied. Even my body, a wound, infinitely.
Earth spins on an unfair axis. Streets curdle. Again, blood.
O, come back coastline. Come back, un-shipped sea.
Remember the way my people were robbed of bone and breath?
You called it liberty.