Wish

I wish those tall ships at Africa’s shore
Dropped anchor to plant crops there:
Sugarcane, tobacco, cotton and coffee.

Instead they filled the hungry bellies
Of hulls with Africans and set sail
Wanting nothing from that big place

That wasn’t diamond, gold, ivory, flesh.
I wind the clocks back and turn the ships
Around, not a single bullet, whip, or cutlass

Sound to deafen our ears for centuries.
No Atlantic road of bones from people
Dumped into the sea to form a wake.

Only noise from markets of crops made
On African ground, instead of that trade.