I swear on all my years

there’s nothing I hate so much as cotton.

Picking, toting, weighing, tramping:

the work keeps coming.

Now what I’d fancy is a life at sea.

Sun and sky and blue water,

with just a sip of rum

every once in a while.

You been to sea, Augustus.

What’s it like?

But what’s it like, man?

The closest I been to the sea

was when the cotton gin came in

to Charleston port. All those fine

flapping sails and tall masts,

cotton bales stacked to heaven . . .

Did you visit lots of strange places?

We sailed the West Indies route.

Stocked up rum, tobacco, beads—

—and traded them for slaves.

Did you have to ride cargo?

But those ports! Sand so white,

from far off it looked like

spilled cream. Palm trees taller

than our masts, loaded with coconuts.

It’s a big brown gourd

with hair on it like a dog,

and when you break it open

sweet milk pours out.

It tastes like . . .

just coconut. There’s nothing like it.

Your stories stir up trouble,

young man.

Seems you’re the only one

who’s riled up, Scylla.

You’re what we call an uppity nigger.

And uppity niggers always trip themselves up.

Are you going to put a curse on me, too,

Scylla? Cross your eyes

and wave a few roots in the air

until I fall on my knees?

No need to curse you;

you have been cursed already.

You feed on ignorance

and call it magic. What kind of prophet

works against her own people?

Oh, you may dance now,

but you will fall.

The evil inside you

will cut you down to your knees,

and you will crawl—crawl in front of us all!

Easy, easy: don’t tell the cook

the meat’s gone bad.

We got to cut it out.

Ya! Ya!