Every speck floating in this room
must be considered.
I don’t want to simplify
what is breathing—
choking—
in this room, though there are those
of you who will demand that I do.
Either way I choose, I’m going
to lose somebody.
I want to be human,
to assume that because Susannah
had three offspring who died as children—
the details gone
about coughs that clattered
on, rashes that scattered across
necks or chests,
air that did not expel,
never exhaled to cool tongues—
that Susannah would be desperate
to cling to a new little girl.
Her need to care, her fear,
would rise into Psalms.
When Phillis’s face
was not her mirror,
would that have mattered?
When water did not drench
Phillis’s hair, but lifted it high
into kinks,
would that have mattered?
Can I transcribe the desire
of a womb to fill again?
That a daughter was stolen
from an African woman and given
into a white woman’s hands?
And did Susannah promise the waft
of that grieving mother’s spirit
that she would keep this daughter safe
yet enslaved—
and this
is the craggiest
hill I’ve ever climbed.
THE MISTRESS ATTEMPTS TO INSTRUCT HER SLAVE IN THE WRITING OF A POEM
c. 1769
Note 1. This Verse to the End is the Work of another Hand.
— Addition by Phillis Wheatley at the bottom of “Niobe in Distress …”
| phillisthese are my poemswrites my wordssince wood stoppedafric’s fancy’d happy seatof what i owewho kept mefrom my despairHe calls me ethiopnegroes black as cainmay they lead youspeak new greetingsthough sorrows labormy mother calls | [no one else][no one else][i remember][don’t remind me][to the Savior][in dark abodes][a benighted soul][in the afterlife][may heavens rule][to your mother][in your hands][on your quill][daughter] | susannahsaw you on that dockwanted to take youhow thin you werei’m not your motheri have prayedyou nearly diedknew nothing of Godthose devils burnthe chosen redeemedgive your farewellsspeak your prayersaccept salvationis that not enough |
LOST LETTER #4: SAMSON OCCOM, MOHEGAN, TO SUSANNAH WHEATLEY, BOSTON
August 30, 1770
Dear Madam
I bring you longings of our Savior
who makes our lives possible upon
this invaded travail.
[my people scold me for believing wheelock’s lies
that white man who promised to start a school
for the children of my kind he promised
rooms bordered by brick and wood
that he would teach them tricks of english
that man’s a colorless devil like the one
who spoke scripture in the wilderness]
In prayer, Phillis’s path came to me,
as she stands on my heart’s sweet floor.
She is of an age to marry and sail back
to the clouds of her homeland, to bring
the Good News to the heathens.
[it is time for her to marry i have heard
talk from boston that many white men seek
to snatch a negress such as her this is
a dangerous moment she is too glorious
to stay alone i do not wish her destruction]
Why not let one of our African missionaries
take her hand, as God has ordained?—
If you could spare a coin, I would bless you.
Your Good for Nothing Servant,
Samson Occom
LOST LETTER #5: SUSANNAH WHEATLEY, BOSTON, TO SAMSON OCCOM, MOHEGAN
November 7, 1770
Dear Most Reverend Sir
I am glad your wife is clear of illness.
Family is most important, as well I know—
my dark child is dear and dutiful.
Please do not speak of her marriage,
but only affirm my better wisdom.
[you crow so easily of my child going
to africa forever who would look after
her in that black pagan pit]
I have judged that brambles of marriage
should not snag her—and who to marry?
[do not dare talk of this to me again
you drunk painted creature no wonder wheelock
reneged on his promise to give you that school]
What African man would be worthy of her?
What white man could she equal?
She is a child of no Nation but God’s.
Minister,
our friendship means the earth to me:
I would be blessed if your prayers
told you to keep your own counsel.
[you have not nursed that child heard her scream
and worse the nights of wishing for cries when
wheezing stole her before she returned
what man knows of this my husband was asleep
i shall not sacrifice i promised God to keep her safe]
It gladdens me to know you have put strong
drink behind you and re-sown your faith.—
I send you a few coins, as is my Christian duty.
In