my ancestors peer towards dry land from the deck
of a ship; or are they like swine, packed into the hold
to see the sun only when they arrive for the slaughter –
how do you tell those who have survived
that it is better to die than to live by trampling
on the throats of others or we are no better than
the masters who crack the whips: some of us
bend and some of us break and yet, some dream
at night of wielding the weapons so they too may rise
but to what end – a long line to stand in and swallow
the lie that we will be next. possess nothing but scrawl
of dragon and phoenix on rice paper devoured by flame
