she’s a house slave
and not picking cotton
under the burning sun
from dawn to dusk.
But no,
Eliza wants to stay in that shack
with her Dave.
Hey, girl,
didn’t anyone ever teach you
to be grateful for what you have?
You’ve got food to fill you up,
a dry roof over your head.
What else do you want?
I’ve seen Dave’s eyes on you
every time you pass.
Isn’t that enough
to make you smile?
My Eliza
DAVE, 1822
My Eliza—
sometimes
like a cat
she sneaks into the shack
late at night.
She rubs my back,
so tired
from bending over the wheel.
She kneads my tight muscle,
making it soft
like fresh-dug clay.
We breathe deep,
and for a while,
alone in our shack
away from the turning house
and the Big House,
we feel safe.
That Man Is Mine
ELIZA, 1824
Master Drake thinks
working in the Big House
is better than picking cotton
in the fields.
What does he know?
I wash and press
mountains of clothes.
I scrub the floors
and scour the pots.
I cut up baskets of onions
till tears run down
my face.
And the Mistress
always watching,
never leaving me alone.
Then out the window
I see Dave
carrying a great big jug,
the muscles in his arms
rippling,
and I think—
That man is mine.
I Beg You
DAVE, 1825
I heard it said
Master Drake has some intention
of selling Eliza.
Could be a rumor,
you know how people talk.
But I heard him say Alabama
and Eliza’s name.
I run down to the turning house.
Master Drake is mixing slip,
the watery clay
that glues the handles
onto our jars.
“Please, Master,” I say,
“I beg you with all my heart.
Let Eliza stay,
or send me with her.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy, Dave?”
“Yes, Master, but I beg you—”
“Go on back now.
It’s getting late.
What would a potter slave
like you
do in Alabama anyway,
where there are
no pottery works?”
At night I listen
to the crickets and frogs.
What’s that rustling?
Could someone be packing up
to go?
I’m afraid to sleep
for fear come morning
Eliza will be gone.
Departure
ELIZA, 1825
The minister said,
“Till death or distance
do you part.”
Could it be he knew?
Master Drake says,
“Come on, Eliza.
Walk with the wagon now.”
I ask if I can say
good-bye to Dave,
but Master Drake just laughs.
“No need, Eliza.
They’ll find you another man
real quick.”
He winks—
and I cry.
Brilliant Glazes
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1825
Elegant porcelain
I failed to make.
But my glazes
for stoneware pottery
are the finest
in all the land.
No need
for expensive salt
or poisonous lead.
My glazes are made
from wood ash,
sand,
a little clay;
grind them fine,
add water,
mix.
And when the fire’s roaring hot
my glazes melt smooth as glass,
brilliant
in the Carolina sun.
Loading the Furnace
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1826
Little John, you crawl inside
and start loading up
the furnace.
Be careful, boy.
No pot or jar is to touch another one,
you hear?
Tom and Jack,
Dan and Dave,
you boys split these logs,
make slabs long and narrow
to fuel the fire.
Dave, did you dip that big bowl
in glaze for me like I said?
Then keep splitting those logs,
because we’re firing hot
tomorrow.
Firing Time
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1826
Early in the morning,
we stoke the fire
slow at first,
letting the sides
of the furnace heat up.
Soon the neighboring folks
come out to watch,
children running all around
and underfoot.
“Come on now, boys,” I say.
“Take the fire up quick.
Stuff those slabs in
as fast as you can.”
The furnace is roaring
louder than thunder,
a ball of fire
turning my glazes
blue
and green
and yellow
bright as gold.
Finally the orange flame
leaps out of the chimney.
“You’ve done it, boys!” I shout.
The children cheer,
their mothers smile,
and the smoke lingers
in the air
for hours.
What’s Gotten into That Boy?
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1826
Dave is the only one
not smiling.
I don’t know
what’s gotten into that boy.
“Dave, take that frown
off your face,” I say.
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you have a problem today?”
“No, Master.”
“Then you smile, hear?”
“Yes, Master.”
Almost a year’s gone by.
Could he still be missing
that bony girl,
the one Harvey sold
to those folks
heading for Alabama?
That’s My Jar
DAVE, 1826
It takes three days
for the furnace to cool.
Even before the sun comes up
on the last day,
I smell the ash.
Little John and me,
we climb the hill
to the furnace.
Doctor Landrum and Master Drake
&n
bsp; are already there.
Doctor Landrum’s voice is clear.
“Morning, boys,” he says.
“You ready?”
I unbrick the door.
Little John hands me the jars
one by one,
warm and shining
in the rising sun.
Doctor Landrum says,
“See that green?
Have you ever seen a color
shimmer like that?”
He holds my jar,
the big one with the lip
and glaze dripping
down the sides.
“Now, that’s a jar,”
he says,
forgetting it was me
who dug the clay,
and centered the mound,
and pushed my weight
against the wheel,
forgetting it was me
who rolled the clay
for the handles
thick and solid.
See the thumbprints
on the sides?
Those are from my hands.
We line up the jars and jugs
by the road
for all of South Carolina
to come and see our wares.
Whoever buys the big one
will never know
I made that jar.
The Scriptures
SARAH DRAKE, 1826
Every morning
I read the words
of the Scriptures.
It is up to each and every sinner
to search the Scriptures
for himself
until he finds salvation
in the words of the Lord.
How, may I ask,
are slaves to search
unless they know their letters?
My dear husband,
take this little spelling book
and leave it with Dave
in the hope
that it will help him
find a way
to learn his letters
and someday
read the message
of our Lord.
Our Conscience
HARVEY DRAKE, 1826
No doubt,
my dear wife,
we are bound
by our conscience
and our beliefs.
Dave learns fast.
In a matter of months
I’m sure he will master
the basics of reading
with this spelling book.
Just be forewarned—
while allowing our slaves
to read is our duty,
teaching them to write
is punishable
by South Carolina law.
Writing is a dangerous tool.
A slave who writes
might forge a pass to freedom
or conspire with others
to organize a revolt.
Indeed, writing
is a weapon.
The Blue Back Speller
DAVE, 1827
A small book it is
but big of heart,
for with Mr. Webster’s
blue book
I am learning to read.
I stare at the pages,
struggling to make sense
of the letters,
until one day
they jump off the page!
One-syllable words:
pig,
man,
dog,
horse.
Two-syllable words:
Mas-ter,
pot-ter,
Edge-field.
I should blow out
the candle,
save the wax,
but I’ve turned
to the long words
that I love best:
mag-nan-i-mous,
sa-gac-i-ty,
se-ver-i-ty.
Here is one
I had never heard:
con-cat-e-na-tion.
What does it mean?
“Chains,” Doctor Landrum said,
“a linking together.”
Like the chains of bondage,
the shackles around the legs
of us slaves.
Mr. Webster,
it seems to me
we know each other.
Tell the World
DAVE, APRIL 18, 1827
Master Drake sees me
take paper scraps
to practice my letters.
He clears his throat.
“A slave who can read
is one thing,
but a slave who can write
is a menace,
causing trouble for himself
and others,” he says.
I’m alone in the shed
making bricks all day
until my back
is about to break.
Put clay in the mold,
scrape off the excess,
let it set,
turn it out.
Four bricks at a time,
hundreds by noon,
each one the same
as the rest.
How is writing letters
and words
a menace?
This stick here
is sharp and straight,
just right for carving words
in wet clay.
I’ll put the date—
April 18—
on the backs
of these bricks
that on this day
a man started practicing
his letters.
The Edgefield Hive
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1828
What’s a town
without a newspaper?
The Edgefield Hive,
now that’s a name
for sure,
a journal swarming
with ideas.
My dear nephews,
Harvey and Reuben,
the pottery manufactory is yours
while I use my paper
to tell our citizens
of the sciences and arts.
I’ll need someone to help me
haul the paper
and clean the press.
Would be better
if he could read.
Why of course—
Dave,
the potter slave.
Real Paper, Real Ink
DAVE, 1830
Carry the newsprint,
oil the levers
of the printing press,
clean the handles
covered with ink.
After The Hive is printed,
I put the letters,
one by one,
back into their places,
to be pulled out again
for tomorrow’s words.
So many words
five and six syllables long:
corporosity,
compressibility,
incivility.
By the time my work
is done,
the light outside
is fading.
But now it’s my turn
to copy words
onto real paper with real ink,
over and over,
until my hand is too tired
to hold the pen
and my eyes start closing
as I write.
Late at night
in my shack,
I toss and turn on my cot.
The air is so still
it’s hard to breathe.
I miss the potter’s wheel
and the coolness of clay
on my skin.
I miss Eliza’s warm hands
rubbing my back.
I sit up
and write a letter
in my head:
My dearest Eliza,
Please know
your husband is missing you
each and every day
and with these words
he is sending you
his love.
Education
ENSLAVED CHILD, 1830
Uncle Dave,
you going to teach us some more
today?
We got our sticks.
We’re ready.
He takes my stick,
and in the dirt he writes:
dog,
cat,
pig,
cow.
We’re tired of those baby words!
“Keep your voice down,”
Uncle Dave warns.
“You know this learning
can get us in trouble
if we’re not careful.”
Okay, Uncle Dave.
We’ll talk quiet.
But can you give us
a word
with lots of letters?
Ed-u-ca-tion, he writes.
What’s that?
“It’s what you’re doing
right now—learning,”
Uncle Dave says.
“It’s reading and writing
and thinking.”
After everyone’s gone home,
Uncle Dave reads me a story
from Mr. Webster’s spelling book
about good boys
who want to learn.
One day
I’m going to read that story
by myself.
A New Husband
LYDIA, 1830
I feel Dave watching me
when I walk past.
He’s a smart man,
I know that,
with all those big words