Augusta Auction

HARVEY DRAKE, 1815

 

My uncle did not send me to the market

for peaches or green beans or squash.

I make my way to the auction block

crowded with people,

watching.

The Negro mothers wail

while their children cling to them

like melons to their vines.

One slave stands alone,

young but not a child,

strong enough to haul the clay

up the slippery, steep banks

of the stream.

“See here, Young Master,”

shouts the auctioneer.

“He’s only six hundred dollars,

country born,

good teeth,

straight back.

Come see for yourself.”

I could get two for that price,

three hundred each.

“Can you work, boy?” I ask.

“Yes, Master,

I sure can work.”

There’s intelligence in those eyes,

considering.

“Four hundred is all I have,”

I tell the auctioneer.

“Five hundred firm,” he insists.

Others are watching

to see what I’ll do.

That boy stares at me,

waiting

in the Georgia sun

while our clay is washing downstream

fast as water runs.

“Boy,” I say,

“you come with me.”