Verse Epitaph
Here lies interred beneath this mouldering sod
An honest man the noblest work of God
Duck River Cemetery, Old Lyme, CT
Lewis Lewia, 1779–1852
Papa didn’t talk much about the past.
Birthplace a shrug; parents a shrug. His life
began with bitter memories. He’d been
a code entered in an inventory:
age, gender, work, the color of his skin.
He enjoyed the work in Parson’s Tavern:
greeting coaches, helping people climb out,
carrying in the luggage they had brought.
He’d say he enjoyed doing the same work
a hell of a lot more as a free man.
He must have read the Bible five times through.
Him and Mama and James and me sometimes
had Bible verse remembering contests
that lasted till the candle flickered out.
I used to win, because of Papa’s help.
I gave him (and God) credit, when I won
First Prize in the Sunday School Bible Bee.
The first bee ever. Were people surprised
to see me win! The daughter of two slaves!
Papa was soon freed. No apologies.
He didn’t talk much any time, really.
Him and Mama always had their hands full,
enslaved and free, eking out a living,
and showing us how we should walk the path
God gives, which sometimes feels like punishment.
He’d tell us to hold faith in the future:
not that it will come, but that it’s out there
already, the fulfillment of God’s word,
like buds waiting for their time to flower,
to fill all air with their long hoped for scent.
Notes:
This poem is from “The Witness Stones Project” portfolio that appeared in the November 2021 issue. The authors write about the series and the collaborative process here.
Source: Poetry (November 2021)