You have never known those shores or those people or those 

       words that sound like a memory your heart can retell

but your mind cannot.

It's illogical to think some piece of them is in you,

       that your heart still whispers dark continent 

though your eyes have only seen it on a map.

They say "go back" and you almost want to

      even though you would be a stranger in your own land.

Could you speak to them in the cries of the stolen?

In the language of the lull of the ocean, the keeper of the paper-thin link between you?

       Would they understand why your father cannot stand on a South Carolina shore

and feel anything except for an ache or an echo or a bellow or a burning 

        in his chest?

                           He does not know their anthems but he knows their songs

                                                                           and somehow you do, too.

Somehow when you die, they will look at your heart and say

          that it failed due to stressors, origins unknown.

But your father will nod, place his hand on your forehead

and say,

              "she just couldn't wait to go home anymore.”