First they flogged him. Then

they pickled the wounds with salt water,

and when they were nearly healed,

he was flogged again, and the wounds

pickled again, and on and on for weeks

while Massa sold off Isaac’s children

one by one. They took him to see

his wife on the auction block,

baby at her breast.

A week later it was his turn.

His back had finally healed;

but as his new owner led him

from the auction block,

Isaac dropped down dead.

They couldn’t break his spirit,

so they broke his heart.

They’re still singing.

How can they have songs left?

Never? Not even on the ship

with the whole sea around you?

I was happy once.

I traded it for luck.

Half my life I spent dreaming,

the other half burying dreams.

(Turns away from her with difficulty, stares out the window.)

One soft spring night

when the pear blossoms

cast their pale faces

on the darker face of the earth,

Massa stood up from the porch swing

and said to himself, “I think

I’ll make me another bright-eyed pickaninny.”

Then he stretched and headed

for my mother’s cabin. And now—

that pickaninny, who started out

no more than the twinkle in a white man’s eye

and the shame between his mama’s legs—

now he stands in the parlor of

another massa, entertaining the pretty mistress

with stories of whippings and heartbreak.

You can put a rose in a vase

with a bunch of other flowers;

but when you walk into the room

the rose is the only thing you see.

Imagine! A life without even

a smidgen of happiness . . .