WE WENT to the MASQUERADE BALL DRESSED AS LOVE By

Home , These Eyes

WE WENT TO THE MASQUERADE BALL DRESSED AS LOVE

Sarah Leandra King

Submitted to the

Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences

of American University

in Partial Fulfillment of

the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Fine Arts

Creative Writing

Myra Sklarew,

Keith Leonard

Dean df the College of Arts and Sciences

Date

2007

American University

Washington, D.C. 20016

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UMI Number: 1451776

INFORMATION TO USERS

The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. Broken or indistinct print, colored or poor quality illustrations and photographs, print bleed-through, substandard margins, and improper alignment can adversely affect reproduction. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if unauthorized copyright material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion.

® UMI

ProQuest LLC 789 E. Eisenhower Parkway PO Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106-1346

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. © COPYRIGHT

Sarah Leandra King

2007

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. for my Mother—My Sweet Amuline

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. WE WENT TO THE MASQUERADE BALL DRESSED AS LOVE

Sarah Leandra King

ABSTRACT

We Went to the Masquerade Ball Dressed as Love is a collection of original poems meant to

question what, how, and why we love. The collection, in four sections, includes "For our Lovers," an

examination of unrequited and forbidden love and the consequences of those misloves, while "For our

Progeny" explores the ways in which our care(lessness) gives our children the wherewithal to maneuver the

world. "For our History" is an exploration of the true and imagined lives of the author's own ancestors, a

questioning of why we hold such painful histories in such high regard. Finally, "For our Possessions" takes

a look at the things we say "Mine! Mine! Mine!" to, like a selfish child.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to those who believed, encouraged, then believed even more—my God, my Mama, and

my Grammy. Thank you to those who knew I had something to say, and helped me find the voice to say

it—Claudia, Myra, Kyle, and Keith. Thank you to the Word for sustenance, to the stories of my ancestors

for guidance, and to Kara Walker for inspiration. Finally, thanks to Callaloo for publishing a version of

“Tidy.”

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... ii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS...... iii

FOR OUR LOVERS

Eve Falls for the Black Mamba...... 2

Stockholm, Subject: P. sanderianum...... 3

Bow l ...... 4

Between the Lines...... 5

Yen at the Praetorium...... 6

Idolatry...... 7

Indigo Hands ...... 8

I'm in Love with a D um m y...... 9

The Mark of Cain...... 11

Imagine Dinah, In Love ...... 12

Luma’tic...... 13

FOR OUR PROGENY

Imagine Mary, Angry...... 15

Broken Line...... 16

Sarah Advises Rebekah...... 18

Crop Weeding ...... 19

Proper Behavior ...... 21

Obsessed with Glass Figurines, She Names Her Daughter Sylvie— the Melody of Broken Glass...... 22

After the W ar...... 23

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Pinched N erve...... 25

The Cottontail Chooses Abstinence ...... 26

FOR OUR HISTORY

Sumpter...... 28

Sarah Gudger, Former Slave...... 29

Across the Atlantic ...... 30

If Only it Were Bliss...... 31

At the Auction...... 32

Anthem ...... 33

Vengeance is Mine ...... 34

Passing ...... 35

Eden: The Remix...... 36

History! Come Get Your History!...... 37

To Life at the End of It: 1865...... 39

Death of a Tree Hugger...... 40

FOR OUR POSSESSIONS

Wife of Moses, Mother of the Uncircumcised...... 42

Rachel...... 43

His Chattel's Confinement ...... 44

The Negress Leaves after 20 Years of Service...... 45

Tidy...... 46

Spangled ...... 47

Sweat...... 48

A Funny Story...... 50

Miss Muffet Conquers the Black Widow...... 52

A Note on Carpet Cleaning ...... 53

Cora: The Greatest of These ...... 54 v

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Dysphasia Alone

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. FOR OUR LOVERS

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Eve Falls for the Black Mamba

She plucked the plump fruit from the branch sure it would be bitter and strange.

She needed to know the truth his dark mouth offered felt his heart beating her own— coveted every glimmering inch of him.

The flesh a delicate crunch between her teeth, nectar spilling into her mouth—she grew overripe with longing

three quick strikes to her throat—he gave just enough for her to crave more sharp kisses.

Touching darkening fingers to lips, she marveled at the tingle, a sensation Adam never gave her.

And when the fruit returned from where it grew in her belly—puddling on a part of Eden unrecognizable. She felt the distinct urge to conceal the portions of her body that whispered

Woman.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Stockholm, Subject: P. sanderianum

Pluck! And she was his subject to his pruning, her roots clotting, her head forgetting the sun equals captor, her labellum following him neglecting to water, she wilting

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 4 Bowl

Do you ever notice that when you pull my back to your rigid expanse of chest, I devolve into something living—fallen ripe, tasted fresh

a bowl of sweet fruit where ridges meet warmth—your prints forming possessively over slick surface—it holding their lines as priceless art upon its walls An appetite

in your hands, you test the orange heaviness, hold divine roundness to your mouth teasing the flesh with the slow arc of your tongue until an orange requite—juice spilling

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Between the Lines

Dear P— , I've been dreaming of you lately, pulling at the pearly buttons o f your starched shirt, accepting the taste o f smoke and love in my mouth urging the tobacco-stained camber o f your tongue, longing for your shallow breaths against my throat.

It worries me a little that you occupy so much of my sleep, plucking at my memory, agitating my senses with your nervous etching, urgently scratching my name into verse, recoding our lives on ribbon-marked Moleskine pages.

I hope you're alright, purloining my night-time hours appeasing the violation with familiar passion undoing all o f my months offorgetting your touch lounging on my pillow as though you belonged.

Do you ever dream of me, smell my perfume in your sheets, adore the lines o f that sketch you penciled o f my smile, remember the shadow o f my eyes that night, agree with your heart to just forget, hear my sighing in your pulse.

I hope this note finds you well, purging my name from your fingertips allowing your soul to write of other things, calling unknown the influences o f my voice learning a new subject for your wounded words.

S—

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Yen at the Praetorium Acts 25:23-26:32

I wanted to taste the thick strands curling damply about the sun-thick flesh of your pretty neck, but your passion was only for my spirit.

My brother always remembers collapsing in the curve of my shoulder, breathing hard the scent of our love. He is gripped so tightly under my thumb, your release would have been just a word.

If you weren’t always settling between the thighs of righteousness, you may have noticed the porcelain flash of flesh I offered between the folds of my robes.

And if you stopped tasting the tongue of the Faith, you would have noticed how carefully I painted my ready lips for you.

Agrippa will not like it if I say your only crime is insufficient wanting; so I will simply show you the sway of my jeweled hips as I walk away.

Why couldn’t you offer me your faithful eyes— Did you notice the plainness beneath the paint and gems?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Idolatry

Unmarried no? How far would you go though? This means more to me you know? Fellatio, oh oh. That’s worship, right? Supreme respect. Go ahead, genuflect. Love? Sure. Could be something half as pure. Thank you for the glory, Baby. Call you tomorrow? Yeah, maybe.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Indigo Hands Acts 16:15-40

The wind disturbed everything dark about you, your eyes, your waves of hair, your unknowing spirit. How did you know to trust my God? That when you lifted your stained hands to Pangaea, he would answer your supplication with Christ?

You drank Paul's truth, gave your home as haven for this new Faith, called to history your name, offered the new Messiah your delicate heart.

When we were imprisoned, your prayers blended with our singing, offered to the air, then into the ears of God. Your tears dropped to the earth, shook us free.

We returned to you wounded, and it was your purpled hands that tended to our abrasions, those same hands raised to God grateful for His miracle, offering even more of yourself.

You could not know that when I came back to you, it was not the sight of life outside of prison that lit my eyes, but the sight of you. Why could you see the truth Paul told, but could not see the way I loved you?

Your heart was for Him, I know. You could not feel the way my heart beat when you dressed my cuts that night. You prayed for my healing while I prayed that you would give me just a little of the faith you had in Him.

I need more than the purple print you left on my arm when I held you from falling over your dye.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. I’m in Love with a Dummy

I once met this girl who said what she wanted was a big, phiiiiiiiiiiine, strapping dumb ass sucka. She wanted a man who was a good screw, but couldn’t figure out that 1+1 was 2. She said men with brains were complicated thangs and when her man started a sentence with, “Baby, I been thinkin’...” She would tell him, “Now that was your first mistake.” Well I can tell her after dating a big, phiiiiiine, strapping dumb ass sucka that she just may be wrong Uh huh. His skills may thrill, but his affections aren’t long. And after that exceptional lay, you look up and he’s gone. And not because he’s a dog, but because he forgot what the hell he was doin’ there. And before you know it, he’s forgotten that he’s even with you or at least only you. Nope, a dumb ass like that doesn’t understand monogamy. “Monogawhat, Baby?” And you’re like, “You know the way 1+1 makes 2 and not 5, or 4, or even 3.” And he looks at you in that blank way that only phiiiiiine dumb suckas can, and you wonder, “What am I doing with a man who can’t figure out simple arithmetic?” “Arithmahuh?”

“Shit, did I say that out loud? I am saying 3 makes a crowd Baby!, and if you’re gonna be with me, you need to be with ME!” But why? Why would I even want that? And next thing you know you’re feeling pretty spaced out

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. and dumb yourself, wondering how in the hell did you end up here with this dumb motha—oooh nooo, not that language, Uh uh, time to send this dumb sucka packin’ and find some otha brotha before his dumbasswe.v.v rubs off on my ass.

But you know

there’s always something so sweet in the eyes of those big phiiiine dumb suckas. And I only said she may be wrong. What do I know? She may have it exactly exactlyexactly right.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. The Mark of Cain after Kara Walker: The Emancipation Approximation (Scene 20)

Both outcasts for skin yours gnarled with warts—mine too evolved to warmer climates

Perhaps we can make something of each other you, a kissed thing among your peers— Me, a bit of royalty.

Why did you leap from my arms?

Tell me: had you remained in my embrace, had my lips to your dry skin made me honorable, would I then mean a little more than you in this land? Would the crown remove these horns from my head?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Imagine Dinah, In Love Genesis 34

I f my mother were the loved one, perhaps I would have understood desire.

Too concerned with her own reflection, Mama missed mine slipping away. Why can’t he love me? What does she have worth fourteen years. The asking in her ears just enough to muffle my shuffling out of the tent. Perhaps if I remembered Granddaddy I would not need her warning. To protect his wife from the city he had to pretend his lover was his blood.

Never go unguarded.

But I wanted to feel the breeze of a new city, find pretty friends, perhaps pluck a hyacinth for Mama. Maybe a gift would pull her away from the careful study of her shunned image. I did not understand as a girl unprotected, I was a woman seeking

Shechem. Shechem, how could you know so well the untouched portions of my body? You should have asked Daddy first; he understands passion. Did you see that I loved you—even uncircumcised? If I never forgive my brothers’ revenge will you believe then how much?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 13 Lu’na tic (l0c'n3-tlk) adj. Affected with the kind of insanity that has recurring periods dependent on the changes of the moon.

I. Sea of Crisis The moon tips her off

Does he love her through the window, Margaret? Make a portrait of yourself in the window. So that is where his love has been for all these months. See your knuckles through the window. Did you think she was your friend, Margaret? Now you know the truth from the window. Don't always be so quick to act, Margaret. Just remember this revelation from the window. Carry it in your heart like a clot, Margaret. At the right moment, it will crack like the window.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. FOR OUR PROGENY

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Imagine Mary, Angry

I. They have no wine, I whispered. Woman you called me in response. You made a miracle of their water, and all I could do was wait. You told me You were about Your Father's business. I should have known I could no longer watch Your tender lips form Mother.

II. Woman, look at your son, and You gave me to John. Was there consideration that I was Yours— Your mother, not just Yours to save? I am blessed among women to lose her son twice— once to Woman and again to

III. The people washed clean of their little sins, Your body is all I have left— heavy with the blood they tried to beat out of You, heavy with the bone they could not break. You meant for their consumption—Bread and Wine, Bread and Wine, Body Yours Blood and mine Yes, I am Woman, but the wet anointing Your quiet face is a blessing from Your mother's eyes.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Broken Line

Memorial Day, 1980: Mara was a party girl, the red-head life of whatever was going on wherever there was vodka. She tried to live intensely, know everyone, tell her life story to anyone who would listen. And they usually did because she was cute and had thatthing.

March 2,2001: Sammie was her mama's personal bartender, living in Mara's obsession with clear libations. She moved shallowly through life, giving her friends only the impression of knowing. She drank a Shirley Temple on her twenty first, and decided her mama didn't need her enough for her to keep hanging over her like a freckled angel.

December 23, 2005: Sammie left a message for her mother: Mama, sorry to not have called in so long; thought I needed space; hope you can forgive me; call me as soon as you get home.

When her caller ID registered her hometown, she answered expecting that usual charisma crusted over with hurt from the long passage of time.

Good Friday, 2003: Mara understood Sammie's need to lose communication. She knew she had a lot to be forgiven. She tried to cross

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. the twenty miles carefully, making her way towards her daughter's last known residence, This time would be different. She disappeared

between crushed metal and shattered glass, flames almost robbing her of identity, taking from her the life lived so hazily. She was not sure her daughter would accept her repentance, so before her trip found absolution in the sharp base of a martini glass. One last drink before sobriety.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Sarah Advises Rebekah Genesis 25:21

Dear Rebekah, 89 years, and it only took one moment to know that God had forsaken me. That moment in the mouth of a child screaming listen to the tone o f my voice. It is Hagar’s—the pitch Abraham's.

There was nothing of me in that bundle of flesh except my empty-womb shame, my devastation, my doubt in the message of the Lord— nothing more than a thriving reminder that He once held me in esteem. There will always be that moment when you know for certain

that God has brought you back into his favor. A moment in the mouth of a laughing child—a fresh anointing from my never-used womb.

And yes one day, you too will come to that same God-jilted moment. That same wasted belly. That same merciless shame that comes when you wonder if your husband thinks he has made a mother-choice mistake. But know that your children will come. And no one will ever remember you barren—just the fortune of bearing two boys.

Your Beloved, Sarah

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Crop Weeding

First baby girl, just three years old: plump baby legs, smooth coffee skin, and black woven hair. New child runs through a green field crowded

with clover blossoms. She is too young to fear the bees greedily taking gulps of sweet nectar from these white ball flowers.

Her laughter chimes on the breeze each time a creature, gold and jet, buzzes by, wide eyes curious of new beings.

A particular patch of white captures her, grass-scarred knees bend, fingers reach. Tender care is rendered as she plucks blooms from soil.

She brings this prize to me and smiles with pride. White traced in pink, the weed rests like cotton blossoms in baby hands not yet used

to work; hands that gather white, sticky blooms filling master's coarse brown bag. Close at Mama's side believing this collecting

is her and Mama's game, but small hands slow and begin to still. Bright eyes are tired. Her legs have lost their will to stumble

behind Mama. She is ready to quit this, but she must go on gathering until her back is bent and her fingers are gnarled.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Until her breath is labored, her eyes clouded. Until her heart no longer wants to beat, and her mind no longer wishes to think.

But stubbornly, her thoughts remain, passing through offspring, resting in generations until a coffee-skinned baby girl bom

in freedom laughs, clutching pink-stained, white blooms making memory of those once innocent, stuffing sticky white in bleeding young hands.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Proper Behavior

The snake made a home in our house that year—his dark body curving through the halls as though they were his own. I never remember if he died that morning.

I never remember the woman, just mama’s young hand tipping the bottle to her lips. It must have been the way she stared past her life that made me cry.

Mama had three kids to raise on a daycare’s salary. I never remember daddy leaving—only the way her pants hung loose, even while mine were getting snug.

Divorce rested like a rough diamond on the lawyer’s tongue. It seemed fitting to cry, but I never remember my mother saying she was changing her mind.

This time the snake was between blades of parched grass. I never remember him writhing headless in the sun, just that I didn’t play runaway in that yard again.

For eight years I practiced my reaction for the word’s return to our lives. I never remember when I decided tears were a mistake, but I knew to perform with care.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Obsessed with Glass Figurines, She Names Her Daughter Sylvie—the Melody of Broken Glass

Blue lined and sun-stained, her hands have carefully positioned the curios most densely on the left side of the glass table as though the trinkets wary of her prying ran stumbling to the edge. The table a cliff, the maple beneath jagged rocks, they halted. Like Sylvie, they remain fixed reaching for escape.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 23 After the War

Blue bars with red stripes and white stars. Five cents for twelve candles. This is the first time Mama’s had to buy two boxes for me. Tomorrow will be my birthday. Mama sent me to the store

alone. You are almost a man now. She trusts that I will buy two dozen fancy candles with the single dime she has given me.

Mr. Benny is proud that I have come this far. He gives me two boxes of candles for only a nickel. I buy Chase Nuts with the five cents I have left. They are my gift from Mr. Benny.

A woman comes in with this red dress, one like Mama will never own; knee length dress with straight beaded hem. She is like nothing I have seen before. Bright red hair, sea blue eyes, smooth white skin.

I blink once.

“Are you winking at my wife, boy?” A man behind her, shorter than me accuses. I quickly look down. “No sir,” a clear, but quiet baritone. I am tall for my age.

I leave before any trouble starts return to Mama with twenty-four candles. She will save eleven for next year. I do not tell her

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. what happened today at Mr. Benny’s. Later, eight men arrive at my mother’s house dressed like ghosts. I can only see their eyes. Mirrors for flames of the torches they carry. With them a flag: Red with blue bars, and white stars.

Tomorrow, she will pack unbumed 24 candles into her memory chest along with a full box of Chase Nuts.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Pinched Nerve fo r Ellie

When you were bom, there was a hitch in my back—a low groaning ache. You wanted a more detailed life. So yelled yourself out of the drain and into homes.

Your eyes feasted on everything, and your belly grew abnormally—five inches long and that large around. When they dewormed you, my back ached louder.

For seven more months, you jumped into the rafters; clung to screens like a spider web swung down banisters—an acrobat. Each day I could move a little less.

When you died, I couldn’t walk for days.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. The Cottontail Chooses Abstinence

Mother, you sacrificed your comfort for my warmth and I can still hear the echo of your heartbeats in the strands that cling to my ears. Instinct tells me that I have lived long enough now and must start my own family, pulling from myself blind, hairless kits and then the soft fur covering my chest. But instinct cannot make me love enough to leave my echo in another's ear while she mindlessly follows nature to countless bearings. Has ever one of our numbers died fully capable of birthing, but never having done so? We live alone in our forms anyway. Why create a population that will not keep vigil when the farmer finally tricks me into eating his poisoned vittles? Even while I wait for my stomach to explode, Mama, your cloying heartbeats will be enough.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. FOR OUR HISTORY

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Sumpter after Kara Walker: Negress Notes (p. 26)

Whose fault is it that I carry this verse in my body—that I lope as jument to greet you—this ugly oppression heavy on my bowed back? If I bend a little more, reach as graciously as ever to shake your steady hand— if my load falls over my back and smashes your good intentions, whose fault will it be then?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Sarah Gudger, Former Slave after Sarah Gudger: Unchained Memories

Face heavy with memory, she gives little attention to the pale man in a dark suit determined to etch her blue-eyed riddle onto duo-toned history: her roots,

her roots— He wanted them preserved, needed to catch cataracts looking to a past of seeing eyes and too much work. His greed for her story incited the slow lash

of her tongue. Poised for her latent image to be recorded on glass and in words, she made sure to tell him: I was damaged; this is de gospel truf. D on'you worry

I done waited one hundred and twenty-one yea's to tell de story and it sho' is de gospel truf.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Across the Atlantic

On deck, the men trade tales of dark conquests wild, curly headed women with half civil children growing in their bellies—gifts for good service.

As rum's bum ripens the stories, salt air must bare the weighty charge of laughter, try to reach the freight

below where the cargo coughs heavily, lungs rattling free the clean air of a continent, breathing back tobacco plants and sugar cane and bolls of cotton.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. If Only it Were Bliss after Richard Jones: 101 Slave Narratives

Richard Jones, who claims he is 125, tells the story of his Granny Judith who was lured from Africa by a fascination with red flannel dropped on the ground by pale visitors. The Africans had never seen red cloth before and were enticed onto the ship where they were allowed to wrap themselves in red as they made the long trip through the Middle Passage. Richard's story recounts only "happiness" among slaves who where trapped and tied until the ship reached a point too far out for hope of escape.

Blanched mother hemorrhaging on our shores—searching for a place to stop the labored breath. We are only mesmerized by her birthing and follow her into the bistered womb o f the waiting ship. Wrapped in the placental sanctuary o f scarlet, we are borne through the Claret Couloir—miscarried alive into a new world too far from the congealed blood waning back to home.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. At the Auction

Mississippi Summer, parasol doing nothing to stop the blazing sun. Picking up a fan, I resist the urge to pant like a dog. My husband begins to speak, “See, we don’t want that one: he would be too hard to break. His legs are thin, but look at his eyes. We cannot afford the next: he is young, and strong, already broken. He will fetch a good price, but not from us."

He finally settles on one: dark brown, smooth flesh, young wrists consigned to their station in chains.

He bids:

Two thousand six hundred dollars. The auctioneer concedes reluctantly. "Worth more than that," his thick lips mumble just as I look up into clear dark eyes and surprised, realize those eyes are looking unwaveringly back into my own. The warmth

that embraces me in the manor at night does nothing to aid my rest, but at least heat was my only concern. Now he will be my sleepless nights.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 33 Anthem

Oh say can you see freedom, freedom in the hem of Moses’ old gingham, the some other life by the early dawn light of her cloudy eyes? What will it feel like, this moment, this moment that others have looked on so proudly? She is guiding us, but what toward? We hailed her coming, but now, now we must face the betrayal of day, pray twilight persists, rest our feet in asylum before its last gleaming. Whose fingers will soothe the broad stripes mapping our backs, and whose voice will keep the bright stars of our children’s eyes, our blood not yet knowing that they do not own their own hearts, our blood for whom we struggle this perilous fight. We must trust her to be our rampart, remembering the gun tied to her side in case we ever falter. We watch her; believe her our gallant salvation, this "freedom" streaming through her. She is our rocket carrying us quietly until we explode into freedom, until the red of our blood soaks in new earth, until the glare of the dog no longer captures us. She is our bomb, bursting with freedom, bearing it in her body like living air. We never forget what she gave us, proof that we are more than dark bodies moving through the night of overworked life, that we can flag down freedom, that our souls are still here. Oh say, did you know? Did you know that when our heart first beats, it beats back to itself before any other? Will that star spangled banner remembering that we were her heart, wave us back? Will she cover over our closed eyes with the land of the free, bid us residency in this home of the brave?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Vengeance is Mine after Frank Bell: 101 Slave Narratives

Encrusted with 620,000 corpses, freedom arrived on an unlucky amendment. Master Johnson made himself the placeholder of Frank Bell's freedom. When reminded of his obligation to allow Frank to make his own way, Johnson rebuked the dissenters with the same message always: He stays o f his own free will. Then a whisper in the dark ear: If you leave me I will kill you. Later, Johnson was killed in a brawl that broke out in the bar he owned.

Soothing massage from fallen angels: Accelerant smoothes the skin. Strike the match and let it fly softly to silica flesh. Skin sizzles and melts, but refuses to slip from the bone. The flames never kill, and these are not my dying screams.

White angel hears the cry and comes to rescue me. The Adversary always knows o f his coming. Send the dark angels to spray me down— clean me up— clip my larynx— slice a grin into my face.

Taking my place beside the Master; I am ready for our audience with Orpheus. "There is a place prepared fo r Mr. Johnson in Heaven. You must release him now. Let him go."

Proud Angel: "Can't you see; my servant only stays here o f his own free will. ”

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Passing

Blackness has melted from this skin leaving only what lies beneath: ivoryperfection. Coarse head of thick crinkles has become exotic waves of softness on milky shoulders. Clasping hands now free from the calluses of work, I curse my new excuse for this slightly fawn hue: Dear departed family from the South o f France. Prayer screams inside: Forgive me Mother for I have washed you away. It has been nine years since your stories fell on now deaf ears. Always wanting to remember, you retold the stories of our dark past: ancestors working sun to sun sowing and reaping a white crop for a white man. I try to forget those stories everyday that my white man's fingers sear my thighs with their gentle caress. Masters have done this to us all along: we become less and less of who we are. He thinks he has found a gem in me— an exotic, French diamond. But I will taint his legitimate bastards forever. Certainly this is my one saving grace. I have no reason now for my confession. Cold, cold revenge on his descendents will quiet the hum of my mother's voice. I have my reasons for forgetting. The sins of his father are paid for by my son.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 36 Eden: the Remix after Kara Walker

I was Eve, first creation dooming your souls in retribution. I’m no fool; I remembered what He said, but the serpent showed me a vision—cotton

fields, cat o’ nine tails, WHITES ONLY, Fire hoses, backs of buses, glass ceilings. So I ate knowing that the eating would mean my diminution, but that it would be your lessening too.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 37 History! Come Get Your History!

A walk around the Old Slave Market, which now houses numerous arts and craft stalls is a must. ~Flyinggolferholidays.com

Charleston, July 1835

The air only smells like this here: sweat, greed, a trembling uncertainty—this last from the woman on the display table, one scarred arm guarding her youngest child, the other shoring the back of her oldest.

Quite a fin d in the market today, he wipes his reddening forehead before raising the handkerchief high. He needs only the woman. Children are easy enough to make, a smile darkens his pocked cheeks.

As usual, the market is successful. Three items for sale. Three buyers. Her family reorganized. Her tears are fruitless; she tries not to cry them, but the little ones never do the same. She touches them once and then

July 1995

They loosen their protective grip, letting their children roam the room. The tables are full of baskets and wood carvings on display. The women with bright smiles in sun-dark faces strike the tourists

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. as authentic—their Gullah accents a melody over the old sobs, their heavy perfume a fragrance covering the old air.

This is the way they choose to remember: reenacting the old false image. Yes suh, with sweet inflection, bowed head covered in vibrant kerchief. Like a tombstone draped in flowers, the colors cannot hide the dead things inside.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 39 To Life at the End of It: 1865

"The crimes o f this guilty land will never be purged away; but with Blood" -John Brown

You gave me a belly to grow in—slow-form and stow in for nine months of freedom, I couldn't wait to see the world.

You gave me mother long enough to feel her warm breath, love cover and then slow death—too much birthing stealing her organs' workings.

You gave me a field of cotton—bolls for my fingers to knot in. Forever years I tended those blossoms as if I owned them.

You gave me lovers for concerns of others—my pleasures not fulfilled, my body breeder—my womb a field for seed and water.

You gave me children, life blood — my blood so loved them. Each was a heart into the cavity of the master—all his mulatto bastards.

You gave me thirst for knowledge remembering it would make me fallen— put the ax to my hands for it. My teeth to page the only way to quench it.

You gave me whippings—watched a proud back turn to ribbons. The back always there, but mind at a distance, I waited, my eyes on the promise.

He said our sins couldn't be purged without blood run— thirteen is not a good number for freedom.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Death of a Tree-hugger

I was wearing green the first time you saw me— earth and leaves. Wrapped in an apricot sweater the next day—ripe melons against summer skin. I took your fascination with color as love

of nature. I am myself terribly concerned with the living— guilty carnivore, no fur ever to drench this body—no blood on my hands. Earth, leaves, melons', you knew.

I made the basement our den, avoiding the if he can’t use your comb mantra. Surrendering my pulse to your tongue, f thought myself your giving tree— whispered your name like a secret against your skin.

Thomas, you wanted me to sigh, you breathingSally onto my flesh—it crawling like a bug I could smash.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. FOR OUR POSSESSIONS

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Wife of Moses, Mother of the Uncircumcised Exodus 4:25

His breaths came reluctantly, disturbing the color of her cheeks as she knelt to count his life:

Oh, why is your God so stubborn? What part should a small piece of flesh play in your well-being? Imagine! My Moses held hostage for the foreskin of a little boy. Will flint do the work, restore your health, choke our family with His favor? And I must ask, Love: will this cleft be enough?

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Rachel

Siphoning one last reflection of you from my body: I feel myself slipping away and hear the child—the dark midwife who will birth me into memory. I am losing the blood that sustains me, giving it all to your child, spilling it onto the clean, white shroud once innocent sheets floating on the line. Cleanliness will not keep me here for your touch any longer than giving life to this image of you in the meager quarters where I may have belonged.

Half-hearted ray of the setting sun polishes hair from cinnamon to burnished gold waves breaking from their brushed reserve. Come to the bed where you loved and killed me. Cradle me—rock me

slowly, patiently, quietly into the womb of heaven. Everlasting sleep like slow, slow molasses takes a lifetime to get from here to gray granite speckled with black— the date of my birth a lone question mark, the date of my death etched more confidently into eternally crumbling, rotting stone— cold, ashen angel hanging over me. You keep me warm on nights like this. Cradle my life for the last time. Hold me close and rock me slow.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. His Chattel's Confinement the Master's Wife

Why do I need to see her birth the child, my feet hidden in her collard greens, searching for my worth in the womb of this sable girl.

Screams escape the thin walls, my eyes are riveted to her face, deformed by the pain that marks it. In fading eyes, I see surprise.

Finding strength to breathe, she bears down and expels his child, his faithlessness given breath within the skin of her white pride.

Afterwards, the pain persists: suffering neither of us can hide remains within the girl, insists on lodging this labor in my mind.

With humiliated satisfaction, I watch the place where the child was, see his lover's life seep out on cotton sheets. I run back to be with him

just in time to hear the news of life.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. The Negress Leaves after 20 Years of Service after Kara Walker: The Emancipation Approximation (Scene 3)

Don't leave me, and there was the guilt— a deep longing for your desire twisting in my womb, a malformed child. Your tears lingered about your head like an umbrella. Your hat already looked shabbier without my tending, your soles already wearing with your own work.

I run from your words—the sea rushing from the shore finally released from the drag of the moon. On the closer look of your fair pocked face, I can only hope that unlike the sea, I will not come back.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 46 Tidy

She vacuumed, swept, mopped the floors to shining. And oh did she wash— everything with care until her hands shriveled, too sore to squeeze and knead the fabrics.

Sunday morning, she missed mass hanging her linens in the Louisiana breeze. That night, she folded them into small, tight squares and stacked them on top of the curio cabinet.

She was polishing her rosary beads with the ridges of her fingertips when the water reached her waist. She retired to the attic with the thin white sheets. Tiny candles aglow, she prayed for her city until the water ate the last flicker.

Willing to go, she refused the roof, remained cloistered in the attic, covering her face with fresh white linens.

They saw her arm first, beads tangled in her hands. But the sheet had drifted away, leaving her uncovered—eyes to God believing she had shrouded her face from the stares of the living.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Spangled

We are outside of our skins, rising early to cook for our children and our unarmed negotiators, once warriors. We have come to the banks of San Creek seeking peace, begging for belief that we are not alone in this want.

II.

Air cracked like bonesnap by lethal powder. One of our numbers falls. Panic blends with the smoke over our breakfast flames. The peace makers have made a mistake. Raise the flag—

Blood and blue freckled with stars.

The gift flag does not stop the shooting. Six year old knows what to do, waves her flag in white surrender. Lead ball suspends her

rhythm, exploding her white shirt into redness: a star.

They do not want our surrender, only this sanctuary soaked in life. Extermination is not enough. Blue eyes search for souvenirs

finding between our thighs a testament to their strength and cunning. Cutting the external icons of our fertility from our bodies, they leave us in rigor barren of our wombs—corrupted witnesses of this day.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Sweat

M r.H ____

I love to hear you moan. My name an unguarded whisper released from your throat. Screams muffled on my shoulders. Small teeth pressing in because you know the mistress is in the room below the rosewood of this unpolished floor. Thanking God it is too thick to hear the moaning of the boards, creaking with all of the effort I do not exert to pleasure the prude beneath. After all, I wouldn't dare make her sweat.

Helen

You soil me more than the fields—sow little ochre images of yourself within me— breathe the name you have given me against my sickened flesh. Finished, you leave me to bear your weight and another of your images, male or female with my skin and your face. Your barren wife will name them— hate them— overwork them. In this house they will sweat.

Virginia

Once each month, I try with tender accuracy

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 49 to give you an heir. You stay with me on that night in our marriage bed, forsaking your amber-fleshed whore. Every month I hide the crimson of my failed attempt— you always know. Then leave me empty without you and without our child. You creep back up those nineteen stairs to the vessel of fertility above my empty, useless remains. While you are upstairs breaking the harlot in, planting your bastard seeds, I will soak the soft pillows of our rosewood bed. And when you come smelling of lust satisfied. I will be even more alone than when I heard the moaning of the floor boards, lying here smelling your sweat.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. A Funny Story

Contents from her stomach stagnant in the bucket, deep stains frame her eyes (they are more than marks of unrest).

Well-water makes her mouth clean but she can still taste the remains of sudden

blood-rush

followed by the need to expel grits and eggs traveling from stomach, to throat, to tongue. Breakfast re-cooked after her man turned over the table seeing sunny-side up:

he wanted scrambled.

She has had enough: arguments ended with bloodied body, empty smile (for missing teeth), pretty girlfriends who do not see this side.

She will not grin (her smile is ugly) and she will not bear it (her shoulders are weak), and she refuses to let him kill her while she tries to do either.

It is time [1 floral dress 2 pairs of underwear 7 stick people on paper packed in a tattered green bag. 4 drumsticks

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 1 loaf of bread 3 jars of water] to go.

55 years later

Readers Digest, October 2003 (an old issue): "Everyone has a funny story to tell"

This brave old woman: "I don't have any."

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Miss Muffet Conquers the Black Widow after Kara Walker

I: The Widow Captures the Aleyrodidae

Yes, Yes, I’ll be your goddess, your demon of excess. I’ll trap you in exoticism, seduce you with my eroticism. If she finds out, just call me a temptation; say you got all tripped up in the blacker the berry, got your head twisted, and your manhood all spun up in my womb. You know, Once you go black... Until your woman comes back for you and for my man too.

II: Tuffets

Gather ‘round brothas, gather ‘round: make yourselves the pedestal to rest her milky legs. Beg for her love; offer her your hands. Leave my feet firmly planted in the earth (if you must) with no black man to lift me up, as delicate ornament, and a white man only wishing to lift my carefully arranged skirts.

Ill: Miss Muffet Experiments with Makeup

No honey, blackface will only make him want you less. If you want to keep your rigid monopoly on your men and ours too, you better keep it all peaches and cream. You are trophy enough without the sun baths, the collagen, the comrows, and the butt implants. So put that bronzer down, darlin'; perhaps it is I who should be borrowing your makeup.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. A Note on Carpet Cleaning

Dear Louis,

Standing on four of your favorite books, I found your bulletsand your gun locked up on a shelf unreachable as though I were a child needing your protection. I shifted your white leather couch to face the door and briefly considered leaving you here on the carpet like this. But cleaning up after you has gotten old and digging holes is dirty (you know I was never one for the mess of gardening). Your mother would have suspected me, convinced everyone you wouldn't have simply disappeared, not without calling her.

I know when you find me here, my brain full of you leaking out on the new cream berber, you will ask (as always),What have you gone and done, now? To save myself from stuttering,Honey I can explain, I've left you here to deal with this, to stay hungry, to beat the wall (a pale proxy, I know).

A paste of meat tenderizer and water vacuumed up cleans day-old bloodstains very well. But I'm not sure if it'll work on my spot. You might just have to replace the whole thing.

My condolences, Your Alice

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Cora: The Greatest of These

When I was a child—

Thirteen years old. All things the same: Days spent in cotton blooms. Nights in the shelter of Mama's stories, dreaming of something different.

I spoke like a child—

Every Sunday, we heard the Word: Be obedient to "masters." In the field on Monday, I told Annie that church was so boring.

Thought like a child—

Master's yellow housekeeper came to take me to the manor house. I was so excited to go; I thought it would be something new.

And reasoned like a child—

But Mama was so reluctant: Housekeeper said she had no choice. I would be better dressed and well cared for. The manor house sounded so fun.

When I became an adult—

Bathed, dressed, and fed, I stood in an empty room waiting.

[cont., no stanza break]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. My master stepped in, closed the door, turned his eyes towards me. But I, still a child, could not break the code of the message they told.

I no longer used childish— ways

Step, by every patient step he took toward me, red summer to orange fall passed before me, and he pushed me to the floor. I was still just a child when he pushed up the skirt of the handed down dress. Still just a child when I remembered nothing was underneath. Childlike eyes watched as he unhooked the the button of his pale trousers. These eyes gazed at the stained wood of rafters.

For now we see in a mirror dimly—

Opening me, he pushed himself past the girl in the fields. He covered my mouth and took the dreaming child from my body.

But then we will see face to face—

I was worth the wait and the three hundred dollars he paid for me nine years ago. So he owns me even more than this? He gave me womanhood: Blood Bought. It is the first time I realize I do not belong to myself.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Now my knowledge is incomplete—

Whatever this is he has left inside me, mixed with my blood, will fill me with a child once more, (but no one has told me how children are made)

Then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known—

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Dysphasia Alone after the Wari

Alone in the Amazon, I am hungry. Three days now; I am decaying without you. Desolate, my skin hangs even looser than yours.

I cannot leave you in the cold ground to rot, leave here alone without you. I will use this fire to take you with me.

You take so much energy; cutting is tiring without you. Making this fire hot enough to roast

meat is brutal without you. Heat only adds to the odor of life without you. The first taste is lonely

without you. Slipping through my throat and into my belly, each warm morsel makes me less without you.

The flames ash what remains, leaving me here without you— keep decomposing in this novelty of life without you.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.