head.
— from Homer’s The Iliad, translated by Alexander Pope
MOTHERING #2
Susannah Wheatley, Boston Harbor, Summer 1761
And so,
because the little girl was bony and frail,
Mistress Wheatley gained her for a trifling,
passing by the other slaves from the brig called Phillis.
The white woman’s mind muddled
by what the light revealed: a seven-year-old,
naked, dark body, there for every sailor
to lay his shameless eyes upon,
a child the age of her dead little girl—
I’m trying to both see and discard that day,
as when I stood over the open casket
of an old man, counting the lines on his face,
grieving yet perverse, refusing to believe that hours
from then, he’d be cranked down into the grave—
and so,
the lady tarried in front of the sickly child,
distracted by the gulls screaming at port,
their shadows dogging the constant sea.
They were drawn by the stink of a slave ship,
by lice in unwashed heads of hair,
and so,
she bought that child,
not someone older with muscles—
strong enough to carry a servant’s burden.
That was the moment, a humming, epic page.
That one—
in the carriage, a mothering
gesture, finger beneath a chin,
lifting the face up to trust.
The fickle air between them almost love.
She took the child into her home,
fed and bathed her, deciphered
the naps on her head.
Dressed her in strange garments:
gratitude and slavery.
And so.
FATHERING #2
John Wheatley, Boston Harbor, Summer 1761
Or was it the husband who purchased
the little girl? I’ve thought on this for many
years: how might a wife, a respectable,
white lady, go down to the docks
and complete a fleshy transaction?
What insults might the sailors slide
through her bonnet and modest dress?
She was a mother already.
The still-living twins, Nathaniel
and Mary, salted honey in her older change.
But three earlier children had died:
John (the younger), Susannah (another),
Sarah (gone at the same age as this skinny, dark one)—
their father thought the child might sneak
away his wife’s lingering blues.
Was he tender, touching a sparrowed shoulder?
I mean you no harm, child. I give you my vow.
There is a good meal waiting for us at home.
Or was he gruff with a disembarked stranger
as she halted through language she might
have learned on the ship?
And did the child flinch, a foundling
arrived in an altered world?
Too wise when she tasted
the last of verdancy—
understanding that she was naked,
that heroes strip leaves from the trees
they own?
DESK OF MARY WHEATLEY, WHERE SHE MIGHT HAVE TAUGHT THE CHILD (RE)NAMED PHILLIS TO READ
c. Winter 1763
The dark wood no match
for the gorgeous ebony
of the child who leans against it,
while a taller girl teaches
her artful curves and symbols,
the power of letters arranged in a row.
Easy, the ABCs, then short words,
but counting is different.
In Phillis’s home, the Wolof
number in groups of five, but
only possessions or livestock.
It is a bad luck proposition
to count your offspring: you might
as well prepare their funeral winding—
but facile, the learning of English.
The sound of it, then reading.
When Mary marries the Reverend,
this desk will go with her,
but that is for later.
In this room, she’s a maiden,
covered by the name of her father
who is away trading in dry
goods and one or two slaves.
The mother sits in a cushioned
chair, looking up from her sewing
at the two girls,
the oldest pointing at the page,
the baby rounding her mouth.
There is compassion in dust and sun.
If Susannah tilts her head,
she can deceive herself
that another daughter
is quick from the grave,
that Sarah is the girl who laughs.
Anyone can rise from the dead,
for isn’t Phillis here and breathing,
and wasn’t her ship a coffin?
LOST LETTER #1: PHILLIS WHEATLEY, BOSTON, TO SUSANNAH WHEATLEY, BOSTON
January 18, 1764
Dear Mistress:
Odysseus sailed the ocean like me
and Nymphs held him in their arms.
They are ladies like my yaay.
[i will burn this letter in the hearth you are
watching me as i smile i am a good girl i am]
I shall practice my lessons for you
and Miss Mary, pretend Master Nathaniel
does not yank my hair and tell me,
he’ll take a