WEBVTT

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I remain angry about Jefferson's
treatment of Phillis Wheatley,

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and I know so many people are
writing about Phillis Wheatley

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lately.

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I have just this one poem,
Ars Poetica from This Vale.

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Weary of being fog,
I sometimes open up.

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Touch my torso to make
sure I'm still here.

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I'm here as much as any echo.

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Like servant to master, I read
every book, book upon book,

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then told my own story--
the one I'm telling you now.

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I was never anyone's muse.

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So what is a muse to me?

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He said, you don't have the
sensibilities of a poet.

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He meant you are not
among the favored.

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I sat for years with
that stinger in my palm.

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Jefferson told
Wheatley the same.

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Jefferson enslaved his own.

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History reveals, and so
the books are burned.

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I burned my fingers, pulling
pages from the fires.

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I am a phoenix of memories.

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Singed the stinger out.

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Come here, Phillis.

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Lay your head in my lap.

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To oil the hair is
to anoint the head.

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Come, darling.

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Let my lap be yours.

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Let me stroke your brow.

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I will live in your kitchen.

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I laughed at the chains on me.

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Laughed until I almost died.

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Off they fell.

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I have no children, but I
hold valleys and mountains.

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Like fog, I fall
and feel like fog.

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[APPLAUSE]

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