Ode to a Killer Whale

Ode to a Killer Whale

from the perspective of Kunta Kinte

Black boy, with a name
and a plight like that
you may as well claim

African. No matter
your mama squeezed
you into the black waters

of Iceland where you learned
to hunt from top rung,
spanning a cool

hundred miles on a day’s
breath with NUFF
time to frolic in the sun

light shining down on the deep
sea diver’s sole delight--
some white boy locker.

Brother had I known
they were coming for you
next I would of sent

congo cries straight
through your orca heart
to up jump the boogie

before lasso logic
and nigger nets. Alas, it’s
the same passage that borned

we to this troubled land;
and the same white
devil captivated us

both into ticking time
bombs swimming circles
inside their squares.

Oh how they love
you to their greatest capacity--
which is to say, shutting you

up in a bathtub, training
your charm into dollars you make
rain for them, as they flip

you over to milk
your sperm from the cash
cow you is--quelling

all rebellion with rubs
and rewards. Only for
your seeds to grow

apart from you. Alas,
they captured your body
but can’t contain the joy

of your rage. Alas, you signify
half the name they gave
you killer--cause bruh,

you ain’t no whale. But a more
menacing dolphin. Shamu, Rambo,
Sambo of sea, I mean to say,

and Nat means to say
(we spoke the other day),
and sister Harriet too--boy

you got some dead folk praying
for you. Done seduced
your captors with your kind nets.

May your rage accomplish
the rest--seep to that tooth of silence
in us each that no rain can touch.

May you do what we all tried--
in our ways--to do, which is
to say: like the bullet that burns

with a president’s name, boy save
your masterpiece for the stage.
I mean to say: killer whale killer

whale--grip this bitch by its tail and drag
the whole thing down, down,
down, down, down.



© Samantha Thornhill

--Published in Cimarron Review.