my daddy said mr. field, the uncle of miss stockwell, our landlady,
was feeling poorly
and i might take myself over to see
if i could be of any use.
when i got there i washed up his dishes
and swept his floor
and boiled some potatoes for his supper.
while i worked he talked.
at first i didn’t listen.
mr. field is a white man
with cheeks shrunk in enough to make his
ears and his eyes too big for the rest of his face.
and a neck so scrawny,
not a collar exists that could tighten around it.
he started in on war stories.
civil war.
he told me about being a bugler for his regiment.
but he said that didn’t keep him out of danger.
he was standing right beside a colonel who was shot through the middle.
mr. field said: i saw the brigade of negroes under general burnside.
like a long streamer of dark silk they were.
he stared off through his wire spectacles,
the lenses so dirty
even if his eyes were clear
he couldn’t have seen much.
that line of negroes,
marching toward the rebels,
straight as a dress parade.
what happened to them, i asked,
expecting nothing good.
mr. field said: why,
those negro soldiers chased the rebels out.
every one.
i made a pie for mr. field.
he kept talking.
i don’t know if he could see me well enough
to judge the color of my skin.
i don’t know if my color mattered one whit to him.
he just said:
you come by anytime, miss sutter.
you move nice and quiet
and you make my kitchen smell like it
did when i had a wife here. and i do
like a flaky apple pie.
i marched home in a straight line,
with my back tall,
and thought about that regiment of men
like a streamer of dark silk.