an angel with rainbow wings flying above
someone kneeling, like Paul on the Damascus road, before
the Power that changes us in the middle of our life’s path.
Little did I know! All that would be asked of me
by the Archbishop—my books, my music,
my scientific instruments—for answering Sor Filotea.
Yes, I confess, I said that a woman has as much
a right as a man to learn to read and write, and to do it
freely! But I was not free. I was bound by my vows.
So I surrendered all.
Third Portrait
The painter came again and painted me before I died,
one hand resting on the book of my own works, the other
holding the breviary (for life is brief), while wearing
my escudo, another oval painting upon my breast, this time showing a woman, an angel, and a dove
descending from heaven and announcing that
the new life had come.
A PRAYER OF MARTHA BALLARD, MIDWIFE
When the stillborn child won’t wake,
when the breath I breathe into him doesn’t move him,
when his mother’s blood is still pouring out,
and I have to make a choice—
Lord, have mercy.
When the morning light comes in the window,
when darkness flees before the dawn,
when I walk outside in the tender mist,
and tears gather in the well of my heart—
Lord, have mercy.
When I sleep and dream of heaven,
when I wake and go to the baby’s funeral,
when I comfort his mother and then return home
only to receive word of a another woman in labor—
Lord, have mercy.
SONG OF SOJOURNER TRUTH
Growing Up
The Colonel thought he owned me
just because my mama and daddy were slaves.
His son thought so, too, and sold me
when I was nine for a flock of sheep
and a hundred dollars. That was back when
they called me Belle, and I spoke only Dutch.
The new man—calling himself Master Neely—
he raped me everyday and beat me
with a bundle of rods and sold me two years later
to a tavern keeper. He sold me when I was eleven years old.
The tavern keeper sold me to Dumont,
and Dumont seemed kinder. I met Robert,
a slave like me, on a neighboring farm,
and I loved him. But the man who called
himself Robert’s Master, he said no, you cain’t
marry that girl down the road—because he knew
he wouldn’t own our children, Dumont would.
So he beat Robert good and hard for loving me,
and then, Robert died. He just up and died
from that beating and left me alone.
My daughter Diana came after her daddy died.
There she was in my arms, her sweet face,
her mouth milk-wet, her eyes like Robert’s eyes
when I looked down into her soul, and I could hear
Robert laughing, like he was right there,
like an angel come down to look over my shoulder
at this little girl we made, and sometimes
I felt his hands on my waist again, more
than ghost-memory, and sometimes I smelled
his sweat from the field, the fire of desire in his bones.
Dumont came to me when the baby was still nursing,
and said I had to marry, marry Thomas, for Thomas
was Dumont’s slave. Dumont saw I could
have babies and still work, and me and my babies
were strong. He wanted ’em for himself and his farm,
so that’s how it happened. I married Thomas,
and we had five children, all belonging to the man
who called himself Master—that’s what he thought was.
But the first with my new husband, my baby boy Thomas,
he died, right in my arms, the day he was born.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
The truth is marching on!
Finding Freedom
But Peter, Elizabeth, and Sophia, they lived.
My last three babies lived in those days when
the State of New York, they were going to emancipate
us all, and we’d be free. Well, freedom looks different
from my side, yes, it sure does. Dumont said
he would set me free a year before the day,
but he changed his mind, yes, he sure did, claiming
my
