by Andrea Cheng
trying not to stare
at the stump
that was my leg.
“Does it hurt?” John asks.
I nod.
How can it be
that I feel pain
in a leg
that is gone?
On to Louisiana
SARAH DRAKE, 1836
With my husband gone,
I am moving west
to a new state
and a new life.
“Hurry now,” I say.
“Lydia, George, John,
we have a long way to go
before dark.
You can move faster
than that.”
See how she cries,
so sad to leave Dave.
Lydia knows Dave is not mine,
and a one-legged man
cannot walk to Louisiana.
Even if he rode in the wagon,
Louisiana is no place
for a potter.
There’s no clay there,
no pottery works.
Lydia knows this,
but she doesn’t quite seem
to understand.
Why?
DAVE, 1836
Lydia and the boys,
Eliza,
my mother—
all gone.
Why, Lord,
do you leave me alone?
I know
I have the stars
outside my window
like thousands of lights
sparkling in the night.
Long ago my mother told me
you are never alone
while you’re watching the stars.
That’s what she said.
But why, Lord,
with all these stars,
do I still feel
all alone?
A Helper
DAVE, 1836
Henry Simkins
has crippled arms that hang useless,
like shirtsleeves on the wash line,
but his legs are strong.
Henry is here
to turn the wheel for me.
Who knows?
My two good hands
to shape the clay
plus his two good legs
to kick the wheel
might work out
some kind of way.
Carving Words
DAVE, MARCH 29, 1836
The clay is soft,
the stick in my hand is sharp.
Carefully I carve my poem
deep into the shoulder
of my jar:
horses mules and hogs —
all our cows is in the bogs —
there they shall ever stay
till the buzzards take them away =
A poem is a valuable thing,
for every word
means more than it says.
I know I could be whipped,
or hung from the nearest tree,
for writing these words.
Let them punish me.
Then who will mold their jars?
To our masters we are just
horses, mules, and hogs
working until we die.
But when I write,
I am a man.
Our Legacy
REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1836
Pottersville is shrinking
like a shriveled peach
in the summer sun.
Harvey Drake has passed,
and his brother, Reuben,
is going west to Louisiana.
Still, here at my pottery works
in Horse Creek
our legacy lives on.
The clay is fresh and waiting.
My brother Abner
has sent me his recipes
for the finest glazes
in all the land,
scientifically developed,
tried and true.
And Reuben will sell me
his one-legged potter, Dave,
to turn our pots and jugs and jars.
The Landrum brothers
will remain
a family of potters.
Horse Creek
DAVE, 1836
Reverend Landrum has me sit
in the wagon
since my hobbling
on a crutch
is mighty slow.
Good-bye, Pottersville.
Good-bye, Edgefield,
with your courthouse standing tall.
Good-bye, my friends
and relations.
We’re finding new clay
downstream
in a place called Horse Creek.
Henry Simkins,
with his crippled arms,
is coming too,
to turn the potter’s wheel
for me.
A Loan
REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1839
Not brilliant, perhaps,
this son-in-law of mine,
but Lewis Miles is kind,
and he loves my daughter, Mary,
from the bottom of his heart.
Lewis wants to learn
the pottery business too.
For a modest fee
I will send him Dave,
the potter slave,
to show him how
to throw a pot on the wheel
and mix the famous
Landrum glazes.
With the help of Lewis Miles,
another pottery works
in Horse Creek
will grow and thrive.
Luck Is Here
LEWIS MILES, 1839
Who would believe
that my father-in-law
has lent Dave to me
to shape the jugs and jars
at my own pottery works?
I am not yet skilled,
and the clay is lifeless
in my hands.
But learning does not happen
overnight,
and I have time.
Luck is here with me
at Horse Creek,
where I found my love
and my life.
I Made This Jar
DAVE, JANUARY 27, 1840
He is a generous man,
this Lewis Miles,
giving money to every beggar,
more than what is even asked.
On my jars
made in his turning house,
I’ll put his name
with a fancy M,
and I’ll write my name too:
Dave.
They gave me this name,
so can I not use it?
This jar is mine.
I made it
with my two good hands.
I made this jar.
A Master Potter
LEWIS MILES, 1840
Dave has but one leg,
yet I have never seen anyone
make a jar so big
and strong
and handsome.
He shows me how to draw
the jar up slow,
knuckle bent,
taking each ring of clay
a little at a time.
Then when the clay
cannot be thinner,
we let it set.
“The sun is low,” I tell Dave.
“Time to eat.”
He shakes his head.
“I still have work to do.”
“When you’r
e done,” I say,
“there’s soup waiting at the house.”
I leave him there alone,
a potter like no other,
and a patient teacher too.
Sometimes I forget
Dave’s skin is black.
This Jar Is Bare
DAVE, JULY 13, 1840
I know it’s late,
but this big jar
is looking bare.
What should I write
across the top?
My stomach growls,
and I can smell the soup
boiling at the house.
I pick up my stick and write:
Dave belongs to Mr Miles /
wher the oven bakes & the pot biles ///
Then I set the jar on the shelf,
take my crutch,
and hobble up the hill
for dinner.
To Lewis Miles
REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1841
My dear son-in-law,
have you heard the news?
In Augusta a group of slaves—
and mind you some could
read and write—
plotted to burn down the town
and kill the residents.
Now this is serious.
You cannot continue
to be so lenient
with Dave.
You must make him
stop his writing.
Any jars and jugs found
with his words around their necks
should be shattered,
and the potter slave
whipped.
Write No More
LEWIS MILES, 1842
Dave, for many months
you have taught me here,
in the turning house,
to form our pots and jars
with handles thick
upon their sides
and glazes bright
upon their walls.
But listen.
Now it’s my turn to teach.
You must put down your stick.
It is too dangerous
to let others know
you can read and write.
Your words inscribed in clay
can be no more.
You understand me, Dave?
Any pot or jar or jug
that you write on
will be destroyed.
The Choice Is Mine
DAVE, OCTOBER 13, 1843
The clay is wet
and the choice is mine.
No matter what Lewis Miles says,
I will write my letters
small and big
on this jar.
My head is not
full of verses today.
I know:
L. Miles and Dave—
our names—
that’s all this jar
will bear.
Stubborn
LEWIS MILES, 1843
Stubborn Dave,
he continues to defy me.
I have no choice
but to smash his jar
into shards so small
no one can read
our names in the clay.
A handsome jar,
it breaks my heart
to destroy it.
I hoist the thing
above my head.
Wait.
Is there some way
to save it?
No, I cannot take the chance.
I throw the jar hard
against the wall
and listen
as it shatters.
Silence
DAVE, 1844
I center the mound of clay,
draw up a jar,
slice it off the wheel,
and set it on the shelf
to dry.
Now I am a silent potter machine.
In my head,
I cannot stop the words from flowing:
lamentable,
philanthropic,
disenfranchised,
vulnerable.
But I don’t write them down,
and the words float away
like twigs in a stream,
stuck on a rock
for a moment
and then gone.
My Father’s Death
MARY LANDRUM MILES, 1846
My father,
the Reverend John Landrum,
lived eighty-one years;
may his soul
rest in peace.
My husband, Lewis, says
Dave must now be ours.
He has been on
a permanent loan to us
for so many years.
But my father’s will
says nothing in particular
about Dave,
and a loan
is not forever.
For Sale
LEWIS MILES, 1847
Before his death,
Reverend Landrum
did declare in his will
that when he passed on,
all his goods should be sold
and the money raised
be divided
among his kin.
Dave knows, I know,
the time is near.
He will be auctioned
on the block once more,
and I fear I do not have
enough money
to buy him.
Sold Again
DAVE, FEBRUARY 22, 1847
The auctioneer shouts,
splitting the morning air
with his voice,
splitting husbands
from their wives,
mothers
from their children,
me from Eliza,
Lydia, John, and George
long ago—
loved ones
all scattered like seeds
upon the wind.
When it’s my turn,
I have no fear.
Everyone knows
my leg is gone,
but the jars I make
are big and handsome.
The auctioneer calls,
and names run
through my mind:
Harvey Drake—Doctor Landrum—
Reverend Landrum—Lewis Miles.
Surely Lewis Miles
will buy me today.
But here’s Franklin,
son of the reverend.
Franklin waves a stack of bills
thicker than all the rest,
and I am his.
A High Price
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN LANDRUM, 1847
Eight hundred dollars
is a high price to pay
for a one-legged slave,
but my pottery works
can use his hands.
He’s the very best potter,
white or black,
in all of Edgefield County.
My brother-in-law,
Lewis Miles,
glared at me
across the auction field.
I know he wanted Dave.
Then Lewis bought that cripple,
Henry Simkins,
as if he’s the only one
who can turn the potter’s wheel
for Dave.
I have a boy,
only twelve,
who can surely do that job.
Get to Work!
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN LANDRUM, 1848
sullen and mean,
she needs a lashing,
and I’m ready to start
today.
It takes a strong whip
to control these slaves.
Forty lashes
the Bible says.
I tell Ann to carry the pots
to the shelf
and sweep up the floor,
and she says, “I’m tired, Master.”
“You are what?” I ask.
“I won’t clean today,” she says.
“I’ll clean tomorrow.”
We’re in the turning house
with Dave and the rest,
their white eyeballs popping out
to see what will happen.
I raise my whip.
“You get to work
NOW!” I shout.
And when she doesn’t budge,
my lash comes down
in designs
across her back.
“Get to work!” I shout again.
When she refuses,
I tie her with a rope
and leave her be.
That will make her
think about
her behavior.
Wait for Night
DAVE, 1848
A young boy kicks the wheel
and I’m throwing jar after jar,
not watching the whip come down.
But the sound—
What can we do?
The Master stomps
out of the turning house.
After his footsteps
fade on the hill,
I whisper, “Ann?”
She doesn’t answer.
I know she’s tied behind the wall.
“Wait for night,” I say.
“I’ll bring you a drink.”
Must have been
she tied a brick
to one end of that rope
and threw it over the rafters.
When I bring the water,
Ann is hanging limp,
and her pulse
is gone.