Mama worked in the kitchen until

I was about five; that’s when

fever broke out in the quarters.

She used to set table scraps out

for the field hands, and I

stuck wildflowers in the baskets

to pretty ’em up. Mama said

you never know what a flower can mean

to somebody in misery.

That fever tore through the cabins like wildfire.

Massa Jennings said the field hands

spread contamination and forbid them

to come up to the house, but

Mama couldn’t stand watching them

just wasting away—so she started

sneaking food to the quarters at night.

Then the fever caught her too.

She couldn’t hide it long.

And Massa Jennings found out.

Mama started wailing right there at the stove.

Hadn’t she been a good servant?

Who stayed up three nights straight

to keep Massa’s baby girl among the living

when her own mother done left this world?

Who did he call when the fire

needed lighting? Who mended the pinafores

Miss Amalia was forever snagging on bushes?

Mama dropped to her knees

and stretched out her arms along the floor.

She didn’t have nowheres to go;

she’d always been at the Big House.

“Where am I gonna lay

my poor sick head?” she asked.

He stood there, staring

like she was a rut in the road,

and he was trying to figure out

how to get round it.

Then he straightened his waistcoat

and said: “You have put me and my child

in the path of mortal danger,

and you dare ask me what to do

with your nappy black head?”

He didn’t even look at her—

just spoke off into the air

like she was already a ghost.

Mercy had nothing to do with it.

Ain’t that what you said?

Phebe, how far would you go

to avenge your mother’s death?

There you go again

with your revolution talk.

We ain’t got no tom-toms

like them slaves in Haiti!

You don’t need tom-toms.

Just a bird call.

What is it about him, girl—

the book-learning, his aquaintance with the world?

He can stand up to a glare,

but he doesn’t know his heart.

Look around you, child: It’s growing dark.