Nothing to pack before leaving
nothing to say
nothing to watch
I close my eyes and feel the things they do to me
instead of looking
at the blood
the bruises
the pain
First there’s the mule, then the boat, now the fields
and more fields
endless fields
of pretty, delicious, sweet, green
towering sugarcane
a world of sugar
waiting
for the harvest
Out in the fields there are faces
the faces of slaves
chopping cane
faces scratched
by the razor-sharp leaves
faces trapped
so I keep my eyes closed
it’s enough just feeling
their pain
Now I’m shackled, chained, trapped
twenty-five lashes of the whip
in the morning
my breakfast of screams
twenty-five more lashes at noon
instead of lunch
I taste my tears
I eat shame
Nine days in a row
the overseer almost apologizes
her instructions, he says, I have no choice
and anyway, nine is a good number
women who pray la novena
pray for nine days in a row
just like this
only your prayers aren’t words
just those moans
He sighs with compassion, the overseer
saying there’s no choice, he works hard
he has to please La Marquesa
even though nine days of whipping and moaning
it’s too much
too much for both of us
my pain, my fears
and his guilt, the screams and moans reaching
his ears
Merciful.
It’s a word
I truly understand now
compassion
kindness
Secretly, the overseer stops whipping
and listening to my moans
long before number nine
is it possible that he can’t count?
At the moment it doesn’t really matter to me
whether the mercy,
compassion,
and kindness of the overseer
are his own idea
or something that came from an angel of God
maybe the angel
placed a vision in the overseer’s mind
a winged picture
of what it would feel like
if his eyes were closed
nine days in a row
and I was the one with the whip,
watching and listening
while he moaned …