The Age of Phillis. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

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      The thump behind my ear,

      talking of cleared ashes.

       oh: the lowly caste

      Where is my wife?

      Where is my daughter?

       oh: perhaps a master

      I beat my shameful forehead.

      I wanted a boy, hard

       oh: benevolent tyrant

      foot walking me forward.

      A boy, then, a man,

       oh: does it matter

      I thought I preferred—

      and here I am, gripping

       oh: the family sold

      the phantom skirts

      of women.

       oh: oh oh oh

      Where is my wife?

      Where is my daughter?

ENTREATY: YAAY

       Someplace/Someplace/Someplace, c. 1761

       PHILLIS was brought

       from Africa to America

      small creature spinning

       in the Year 1761

      my hands reaching

       between Seven and Eight

       Years of Age

       Without any Assistance

      still my child

       from School Education

       and by only what she

       was taught in the Family

      mine

      and don’t forget me

      or this piece of land

      oh come back

       attained the English

       language to which she

       was an utter Stranger

       before

      my sweet girl

      please don’t leave

       to the great Astonishment

       of all who heard her

      touch my hands

      walk to my side

       This Relation is given

       by her Master who bought her

       JOHN WHEATLEY

       Boston

      my rare seed Yaay is calling

      come to me

AN ISSUE OF MERCY #2

       The Transatlantic Journey of Goonay, c. Summer 1761

      Peas mashed with possibly

      tainted fish A daily pint of water

      No blankets mother father

      clothes underwear dance of modesty

      Why the threats of diphtheria tetanus

      malaria smallpox diarrhea dehydration

      common cold diseases rape

      Why the screaming of the grown shelf mates

      a woman or two giving birth Newborns kept

      by sailors or capriciously tossed to sharks

      Why the banquet of placenta left for rats

      The shackled the crowded begging to be killed

      Why germs and tribes rechristened Negro

      chattering below Vomit

      Why no bleach Why no soap to clean

      the effluvia of prayer Why did she survive

      asthma and fear on that journey Why didn’t

      the ring in her nose get infected

      Why did she have to sleep marinating

      in her own shit and piss Why not death

      in the middle of this Why did this child survive

      Lord Lord have mercy

FOUND POEM: DETENTION #1

       Isaac Chotiner interviewing Warren Binford for the New Yorker, June 22, 2019

       Question:

      How many kids are

      at the [detention] facility

      [in Clint, Texas] right now,

      and do you have some sense

      of a breakdown of where

      they’re from?

       Answer:

      … We were so shocked

      by the number of children

      who were there, because

      it’s a facility that only has capacity

      for a hundred and four.

      And we were told

      that they had recently

      expanded the facility,

      but they did not give

      us a tour of it,

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