The Age of Phillis. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

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