Frederick Douglass Aboard a Sonnet of the Atlantic

I don’t know at which port he stood, what oar,

heard, inhaling mist—& this saline film

a, splicing to a Point of No Return

                                                                                for clarity,                      a shuffling about decks.

                                                                                What’s stolen for Van Diemen’s Land, Charleston?

                                                                                What of asylum granted, hope harbored

with          abandonment?          The same pastel gale

& silent boats, still frames in / Cobh / Cape Coast

& familial fetters boring tide,                          bloat,

lighting channels, every port rang,              calling

steadfast incitement—Boston,      Liverpool      (!)

once faith &      Mersey                  met the Irish Sea

what wonder could be felt in these new sails

raised of foresight, heeding every crew’s caws.