Black River

Black River. How cool is that? For a while, I was researching bodies of water with racially-charged (?) words in them--Slave River was another--and came upon Black River. No, not the one in Missouri. The one in Jamaica. And, this Black River isn't/wasn't a river at all, but a port town.

Legend has it, some slaves were being transported to Black River on the ocean. 130 of the slaves were tossed overboard into the water, because there was a lack of water on board. Then they pull into Black River. The ship's crew were sued for being a bunch of dumbasses and not using their astrolabes correctly or something, causing the trip to be longer. Abolitionists learned of this, and Britain abolished slavery about 50 years later. Bureaucracy!

So, since water is fun, and slavery is not, I wrote this poem.

Have you ever noticed once something cool comes along, everyone wants a piece? I have. When I was growing up, and still today, the best place to watch fireworks in West Point, Nebraska, is my folks' yard. Long story short, the city cut down some trees bordering the park where the show is, and now people can park/sit on the road 1/2 block from my folks' house. And, with that nonsense, comes folks parking around my folks' house. I remember watching fireworks alone there so many years, in the quiet darkness. It was awesome. Now the rubberneckers with their Pepsi bottles come.

Can you imagine if Americans made a Hajj? I can't. But, I assume there would be lots more garbage if we did. This poem is about slavery, water and hidden spirituality. Enjoy!

Black River

In the beginning was black,

and it spilled like this water—

blackwater, water only a mother

could love. Look at its face:

an odd breakage, running

down the legs, a sudden contraction

in summer. No one knows

true religion. Not even the mother

who assured you, you would burn

in Hell for your polished, practiced

reaction to her questions. This water

will never sustain anyone. Not even death

could drink at its sporadic bank. Not even

the smooth glide of coitus

could swallow so much as a cup. I heard

once that mothers would bathe their brown

children in Black River as a cleansing,

but be damned if you call it anything

close to a baptism. Black River doesn’t care

for gods, let alone yours, and will shrug off

blood for sin like dead flesh. Thank God Christ

didn’t command the washing of eyes

here. Thank God Hammurabi didn’t know

of the cycle of flex and relax. Thank God

kings and pharaohs never knew its name.

Thank God no one of worth

ever stooped to take a drink.