🔒 Roots

Then, the future was glaucomic, the bore through mangrove in the dugout slow. I recall the water in its color tannic. I see now an olive wake dissolving from the churn work of the screw. A time would come — it seems it has — to redecipher, understand again the meaning of the motor’s open vowels louding up a sacred space. Corporal Pitt, the bully, said something far beyond himself, “You see all what favor frame for madman basket? those are aerial roots.” He pointed and we took his reedy finger as command, us six good recruits — cadet acolytes joined for camping life — and paused eye-sweep for crocodiles. I plait time to those wetlands often. To be black where I live now is to bivouac. White is wilderness in all seasons. I carry bankras of one-one sorrows; gods in a haversack of joy. Out on long lug-sucking walks

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