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will last centuries.

      Every speck floating in this room

      must be considered.

      I don’t want to simplify

      what is breathing—

      choking—

      in this room, though there are those

      of you who will demand that I do.

      Either way I choose, I’m going

      to lose somebody.

      I want to be human,

      to assume that because Susannah

      had three offspring who died as children—

      the details gone

      about coughs that clattered

      on, rashes that scattered across

      necks or chests,

      air that did not expel,

      never exhaled to cool tongues—

      that Susannah would be desperate

      to cling to a new little girl.

      Her need to care, her fear,

      would rise into Psalms.

      When Phillis’s face

      was not her mirror,

      would that have mattered?

      When water did not drench

      Phillis’s hair, but lifted it high

      into kinks,

      would that have mattered?

      Can I transcribe the desire

      of a womb to fill again?

      That a daughter was stolen

      from an African woman and given

      into a white woman’s hands?

      And did Susannah promise the waft

      of that grieving mother’s spirit

      that she would keep this daughter safe

      yet enslaved—

      and this

      is the craggiest

      hill I’ve ever climbed.

THE MISTRESS ATTEMPTS TO INSTRUCT HER SLAVE IN THE WRITING OF A POEM

       c. 1769

      Note 1. This Verse to the End is the Work of another Hand.

       — Addition by Phillis Wheatley at the bottom of “Niobe in Distress …”

phillisthese are my poemswrites my wordssince wood stoppedafric’s fancy’d happy seatof what i owewho kept mefrom my despairHe calls me ethiopnegroes black as cainmay they lead youspeak new greetingsthough sorrows labormy mother calls

[no one else][no one else][i remember][don’t remind me][to the Savior][in dark abodes][a benighted soul][in the afterlife][may heavens rule][to your mother][in your hands][on your quill][daughter]

susannahsaw you on that dockwanted to take youhow thin you werei’m not your motheri have prayedyou nearly diedknew nothing of Godthose devils burnthe chosen redeemedgive your farewellsspeak your prayersaccept salvationis that not enough

LOST LETTER #4: SAMSON OCCOM, MOHEGAN, TO SUSANNAH WHEATLEY, BOSTON

       August 30, 1770

      Dear Madam

      I bring you longings of our Savior

      who makes our lives possible upon

      this invaded travail.

       [my people scold me for believing wheelock’s lies

       that white man who promised to start a school

       for the children of my kind he promised

       rooms bordered by brick and wood

       that he would teach them tricks of english

       that man’s a colorless devil like the one

       who spoke scripture in the wilderness]

      In prayer, Phillis’s path came to me,

      as she stands on my heart’s sweet floor.

      She is of an age to marry and sail back

      to the clouds of her homeland, to bring

      the Good News to the heathens.

       [it is time for her to marry i have heard

       talk from boston that many white men seek

       to snatch a negress such as her this is

       a dangerous moment she is too glorious

       to stay alone i do not wish her destruction]

      Why not let one of our African missionaries

      take her hand, as God has ordained?—

      If you could spare a coin, I would bless you.

      Your Good for Nothing Servant,

      Samson Occom

LOST LETTER #5: SUSANNAH WHEATLEY, BOSTON, TO SAMSON OCCOM, MOHEGAN

       November 7, 1770

      Dear Most Reverend Sir

      I am glad your wife is clear of illness.

      Family is most important, as well I know—

      my dark child is dear and dutiful.

      Please do not speak of her marriage,

      but only affirm my better wisdom.

       [you crow so easily of my child going

       to africa forever who would look after

       her in that black pagan pit]

      I have judged that brambles of marriage

      should not snag her—and who to marry?

       [do not dare talk of this to me again

       you drunk painted creature no wonder wheelock

       reneged on his promise to give you that school]

      What African man would be worthy of her?

      What white man could she equal?

      She is a child of no Nation but God’s.

      Minister,

      our friendship means the earth to me:

      I would be blessed if your prayers

      told you to keep your own counsel.

       [you have not nursed that child heard her scream

       and worse the nights of wishing for cries when

       wheezing stole her before she returned

       what man knows of this my husband was asleep

       i shall not sacrifice i promised God to keep her safe]

      It gladdens me to know you have put strong

      drink behind you and re-sown your faith.—

      I send you a few coins, as is my Christian duty.

      In

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