Whether or not you are part of my ancestral Seas: from the North,
Irish & Caribbean—it’s not pretty trying to [re]call or forget the sale

of names—in borders & [re]ports—of those who drowned, or swam
around screaming out, or those who took stamps, or those crimped

attuning atop & below the salt water, and for those who lived, where defeat
squirmed & railed as motors back to a Heaven. Maybe

a God, or gods, was working on imitation & intimidation Here.
Maybe mapping the Earth bright with an intimacy of natural elements

led to [re]sistance, like how music doesn’t really distract & [re]sist
from the back’s burnout during plantation, harvest & [re]construction.

But He[re], we are still, [re]calling & forgetting enslaved in noise—He[re]
we are stilted yellers, sellers, buyers, surveyors & [re]searchers—[re]calling.

My fathers who are missing like native ecology in the marina—
My mothers ebbing like salt and sand and plastic—Where are we going?

Speciesism is not gone—even if we are familial, or nomadic, or pilgrimages—
for we are not pretty, [re]calling out petty p[re]dacious creatu[re]ly behavior.

We are sociable. We have faith—like shadows risen inland against the sun,
but it seems our Seas [re]call a better memory on why we are the most troubled & troublesome—