Poem of Address

The Forgetting Tree

to Trayvon Martin

Meet me on the plantation steps. It’s okay. Baggy jeans. A hoody. Wear whatever you want: I will open the door. I will let you in.

Welcome to Smithfield.

You can request the slave tour.

This is not the slave tour.

This is not the regular tour.

I don’t know what this is.

We have to keep things clear.

The foyer, just a fancy word for entry hall—you know how people do. These floors and walls. Tenant farmers let the chickens in.

She is the great, great, gran-something of someone who matters, a niece, I think.

She willed us this house. She is very important. She saved us from chickens.

And him. This wood-framed mirror from Ireland or Scotland, or somewhere else, a

a surviving piece. See the significant carved heart and arrow at top. The mirror is part of a pair; the other was lost, maybe to tenant farmers, maybe to chickens. But him, his name, the one who brought the mirror from Ireland, or Scotland, or somewhere else, I can’t remember, but he is very important, significant like the
heart and arrow whose story I also can’t remember. I’m sorry.

You should know from the jump: I’m not a very good tour guide. I mean, Interpreter. That’s what they call us. Our titles are significant. We can talk more about this later.

This is the sitting room. Important people sat here, drank tea, read books. These are surviving books. None of these chairs are surviving. In the next room, the bedroom, we’ll see a surviving chair, a rocking chair made by a slave of another man for this man, a surviving bed, a surviving fireplace, and upstairs a surviving doll bed made by a slave of this man for this man’s child. The doll in the doll bed might be surviving, but probably not. These glass windows—all surviving. The doll baby is White. The fruit is fake.

Each time/the bowl of strawberries/red and wet/to put one on my tongue.

I admire the strawberries. I appreciate their role. Let’s be honest, I am someone who lusts after fake fruit, as long as it looks real. Let’s discuss this more later.

One of the sons, maybe. We believe he resembles the father, or maybe the dining room painting. It doesn’t matter. They’re all hanging miscreants, just another word for asshole. Let’s switch the paintings. Let’s go at them with black sharpies. Let’s make them silly, make maps of their faces, faces of their maps. The maps are downstairs in the museum store. We’ll get to them later.

She is the wife. Her slob of a husband died first. She never remarried. At least

thirty years without sex. This may explain the overall look of disappointment. This isn’t part of the regular tour or the slave tour. I’m sure it’s more complicated: the twelve or thirteen children, the two or three children dead, the dead husband, a plantation, all the slaves, living inside the gnawing. I’m sure. We have no way of knowing. It’s not in the diaries, or any papers, but we can make guesses. We can interpret.

The rocking chair made by the slave I already mentioned—we’ll take it with us. I’m sure it will fit through the surviving front doors. See the surviving bed. The surviving fireplace. The paint is a special blue, maybe Prussian, maybe something else. I can’t remember. The truth: I don’t care about paint. The architecture makes me nauseous, the balustrade gives me panic attacks, and the window casings give me hives. I threw up in the kitchen room downstairs, in the surviving fireplace, in the cast iron pot, which is not surviving. I’m sorry. I told you—I’m not very good at this.

Let me tell you a story:

Othello and Thomas Fraction are two whole men, brothers and slaves. They join the Union army, the 40^th U.S. Colored Troops. You can leave, but don’t you ever return, says their owner. Their mother remains in Virginia, on the plantation. The Fractions are good whole sons. The war is over. They return to their mother, in uniform. They laugh and tell jokes. They hug and kiss their sister, Virginia. Someone, I don’t know who, runs and tells the owner who is praying in church: your ex-slaves, your ex-slaves, come quick. The owner stops praying. A gunfight ensues. I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you. In this story, no one is shot. A Fraction breaks his ankle, Othello or Thomas. Someone calls for police. You know this story. They throw the Fractions in jail. Charles Schaeffer is a White man. He’s also a Quaker. His school is for Coloreds and poor Whites. He gets the Fractions out of jail and helps them sue. They win for lost wages, and for defamation of character. No, I don’t know how long they were in jail. They win what they can. One of them leaves Virginia, the state. They both leave their mother and their sister. Trust me, this is a happy story. I don’t know what happened to Virginia, their sister, not the state. I’m trying to keep things clear. One is a body of a land, the other a body. The distinction matters.

This is the dining room. I don’t care about the china either, although it is pretty. It might be surviving. It might not. The china cabinet was probably made by a slave. We’re pretty certain. It’s more than likely. This will be more difficult to carry, but we’ll do what we can to get it through the surviving front doors. Remind me not to forget the surviving doll bed, the one upstairs, the one made by a slave.

This is William, one of the hanging miscreants. I don’t want to tell you this story. Here it is:

It is after 1811. The slave trade is outlawed. The rules do not apply to William, a man who breaks arms and legs if you don’t vote for his uncle. William buys a ship. He imports slaves. He makes money. And then, his ship for a month at sea, a blockade off the coast of Norfolk. 300 slaves. No harbor. No rest. Nowhere to go. Some jumped overboard. Some ate their tongues. Some hung onto lovers. We don’t know this for sure. We can imagine. We can interpret. Their desire, broken. In the end, only thirty. Out of 300, only thirty. Sometime before, or after, or during, or between William, the miscreant, who is on the ship with the 300 now thirty slaves, decides no more.  He moves to Louisville, sells thoroughbreds instead. The distinction matters. One is a horse, the other is not. Still, you can bridle both.

This is the kitchen. Baskets, cast iron pots, pans, dried herbs, and Sucky. Sucky is half of a woman. Her stocking-ed face, faceless. We got her torso from Sears. They were on special. This is the metal rod used to beat bread. It was not used to beat Sucky. We get this question a lot, mostly from boys, but also from girls. We’re prepared to answer. We have no idea where Sucky came from. She was here before we arrived.  She’s always been here. We weren’t included in that meeting. We don’t know who dressed her. We don’t know who set her by the surviving fireplace. We know for a fact she’s here. She’s part of the tour. We know she’s half of a mannequin. She was also a real slave. See her name on the registry. See my name. See your name. I should’ve warned you. We’re all here together, always. I’m sorry.

We don’t have time for maps. I could use a fake strawberry.

Because New Smyrna Beach is 91% White.

Because I’m only forty minutes from where he shot you.

Because old death is easier than new death.

Because your year old death hangs fresh with other death I know, old and new:

my father, my grandmother, Oscar Grant, Harriett Tubman, Troy Davis. I could go on, and on.

Because on your day I ate fried scallops, drank wine, tucked your name underneath my greasy napkin, avoided work, stayed up late, posted something about you written by someone else, skipped writing the next day, explained how productive I was this year. This year, every day you were dead.

Because I can’t drive forty minutes.

Because I didn’t look to see how close you were until the day after.

Because I didn’t want to know.

Because New Orleans, Blacksburg, St. Louis, L.A., Hattiesburg, Detroit, Phoenix, Savannah, Oakland, Orlando, Louisville, Knoxville, St. Catherine, Eatonville.

Because Sanford is just another city.

Because Florida is just another state sitting on a giant sinkhole.

Because I made a kite and didn’t write your name and maybe that’s why it didn’t fly.

Because I want to walk into the Atlantic in a white dress, my face painted funereal white, drag your inflatable body back to sea, to somewhere you might call home.

Because the bright star of shuttles disappearing in daylight.

Because if I could drink gin and dance merengue around a space module until my arms and legs take off.

Because in two days I’ll drive two hours and do the Harlem Shake on Zora’s grave.

Because I can’t drive forty minutes.

Because old death is easier than new death.

Because the dead won’t let me sleep.

So I’ve brought you here to this plantation.

Crazy, right?

I never knew I’d walk over the bones of slaves.

I never knew I’d walk over the slaves of bones.

What kind of person walks over the bones of slaves?

What kind of person is a slave to bones?

I know a poet, who calls it weird, this slaving of bones. This from a woman who opens the legs of the dead, eats bread with severed ears, sometimes lives in the kitchen rooms at Monticello. She’s there now. We’ll visit her later.

I’m sorry. Let’s go somewhere else. Where would you like to go? To your mother? Your father? Their bent faces at your memorial in New York. To the sweet, new candy in your pockets. To the girl on the phone right before he shot you. Let’s go there, to the infinite moment of your breath. Let’s stay here. Please.

If you could follow me, out the front door, down the steps, on the tree-framed path. The trees, I don’t know, sycamore or birch, maybe willow. The trees are surviving. Their beauty sickens me. This is all that matters. Past the sign to the Smithfield Cemetery. Please. I’m sorry. We have to do this.

This is the field. We believe slave cabins once stood here. It’s more than likely. We used to believe them somewhere else, but now we have documents. We’re probably right. As you can see, nothing. The highway. The barren field. Notice the alternate view of the plantation house on the rise above us. We can imagine. We can interpret.

The oak tree.  Over 500 years old. We know this almost for sure. We screwed in the borer, pulled out the core, sanded it down, and counted the rings. The tree

is a library, a window, a broken aria of fire. The tree is a ruined ghost and a ship of smoke. The tree is a coffin of strangers, a river of history, a lake. The tree is a blue forest, is a city of friends, a wedding, a voice.  Its naked branches twist into the sky.

This snow is not part of the tour.

If I open my arms and wrap them around the trunk, let’s pretend I can reach your cold hands. Let’s pretend this sudden snow doesn’t feel like sudden death. Let’s make snow slaves and call them angels. Let’s go somewhere else. Where do you want to go? I’m sorry. I’ll take you anywhere. If you could. Just tell me. Please.

Let me show you. I haven’t shown this to anyone. If you stand here, behind the oak, the house disappears. No one can see us. We’re hidden. We’re safe. Let’s stay here, please. Let’s hold hands. Let’s say thank you. Let’s say nothing. Let’s never move again.

R. Paris