By Samantha Thornhill

Tilikum, black boy,
with a name and a plight
like that—just as well claim

African. No matter
your mama squeezed
you into the dim 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 boys locker.

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

congo cries straight
to your orca heart—
up jump the boogie, before

lasso logic and nigger
nets. Alas, the same
passage done borned

we to this troubled mass;
and the same pink
dolphin 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 you but are
yet contain the joy

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

you ain’t no whale.
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 you do all we tried
in our ways to do, which is
to say. Like a bullet

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

whale, killer whale—grip this ship
by its sail and drag the whole thing down,
down, down, down, down.