Are a Haunting

Toward the tide, the hard sand gives way to cold, muddy water. I wince from the sharp chill as it springs from my ankles to my thighs to my hips. Soon the shoreline is a dark wall and I have to hop to keep my chin above the waves. I feel alone in the light of the moon, like it only shines on me and I will be forever cradled by it. I walk below the surface, under the waves, and there is no sound and I am suspended like a child in its mother’s womb. I wonder if I will die in the Atlantic like my ancestors, like the folk stranded on Igbo Landing, or if I will wake up in the morning on my pull out, completely dry. I decide it is no different than dying slowly in Brooklyn, or any place in America. Jamaica Bay will be our landing and we’ll march to a home that doesn’t exist.