Image From New England Reflections 1882-1907 Photographs by the Howes Brothers
The following persona poem is based on the above photograph and appears in my upcoming collection Church of Needles, officially published on May 30 but available for pre order right now at Red Mountain Press and Amazon.com
BLACK WOMAN STANDS FOR THE ITINERANT PHOTOGRAPHER
Said in town, a gentleman wished to see me.
Early April, the yard still pocked
where the dull cow stands
blinking back a sharp sun,
winter’s waste laid bare around us.
Trees haven’t yet recalled their leaves
and a cold drizzle slicks the pump handle.
This far north, spring storms still surprise.
April brings a slackened grip, a brighter light
to view winter’s leavings: not warmth, not flowers.
I’m wondering Sir, why you want to see me.
They say in town, you carry a box with an eye and wish to see everyone.
I think they’re mistaken if they believe
you wish to see me, my soiled apron,
dress rubbing bare at the elbows, the scar
I wear down one side of my face.
But this is New York where I am free
to live in one room beneath a low-slung roof, to plot my days and garden.
So, if you still wish to see me, I ask
that you see me true, not seated in repose beneath that pretty oak.
I don’t often take time to rest. See me standing
beside the stones I’ve heaped
to build my own wall,
the hens a blur of flight. Please,
let the light refuse to soften me.