my man is not here to hold my hand

I found this poem several weeks ago in one of my books for my intro to teaching class, "Rethinking Our Classrooms".  The poem is written by a young student who was trying to understand more the relationship between slaves and slaveowners in the years before the Civil War.  I just love the poem, and I wanted to share it here!

*My man is not here to hold my hand.
My man is not here to hold my hand.

He's out in the field.
He's out in the field.

with a whip in his hand.
with a whip at his back.

I lie here on my feather bed.
I lie here on the blanketed floor.

The pain comes.  I push.
The pain comes.  I push.

Someone, please come and help.
Someone, please come and help.

The midwife comes, the doctor, too.
The midwife comes, no doctor.

Silk sheets in my mouth.
A wood stick in my mouth.

To halt the screams.
To halt the screams.

I push some more.
I push some more.

I sigh relief.  The child is born.
I sigh relief.  The child is born.

Strong lungs scream.
Silence.

It squirms there, full of life.
It lies there, cold and blue.

It is a boy.
It was a boy.

Another born to be big and strong.
Another one born to be laid in the ground.

A babe suckling at my breast.
This babe lying in my arms.

Tomorrow I will plan a party.
Tomorrow I will go to the field.

-- Unknown

* excerpt taken from "Rethinking Our Classrooms, Volume 1", pg. 71