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.