Epithalamion for Owned Lives

Their master gave them permission to marry.
He wanted them to be content and work hard—
with small children, they were less likely to run.

Of course it was not a church wedding.
The master read from the book, and gave them
each other’s hands to hold.

He built a fieldstone chimney
for their one-room dirt-floor cabin.
She trained honeysuckle against the walls.

They hoed cotton in the bottomlands
from sunup to sundown. After dark,
they carried water for their own little garden.

Small pickaninny fingers pick faster than adults’
so the children worked as soon as they could walk.
The oldest son grew sullen, and was sold away.

Of the cabins, all that’s left are piles of chimney stone.
Of the history, even the names are lost,
lost, the graves of these my ancestors.

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