Bolivia Series, Saltenas-Two Standards of Beauty,
Pastel, by John Cummings
(This poem’s audio begins at 2:18)
Indentured
Henry
I was born in Mercer County, the oldest child. My Pa, a carpenter, died of grippe leaving Ma with us children, four boys, to feed. Ma said she must take me and Tom to Pleasant Hill to be indentured and keep the twins who had just learned to walk. We cried when we said goodbye fearing the Shakers, having been told at church that they were devils. Ma promised to visit but the trip was so far and we wept so sore at her leaving, she came but once. The Brothers in the West Family took us in, gave us a bed, shoes and plenty to eat. They put us to work right away in the cabinet shop, us being skilled from working with Pa. It was winter, just after Christmas, and the frost was thick on the ground. We rose before light, ate in silence with the other children then went to work in the warm, woods-smelling shed where Brother David had built a good fire in an iron stove and set out a basket of red apples for the boys. Tom was a pretty child. I had the harelip. Few looked in my face. But I learned to make their pegs right quick so they set me to furniture before my fourteenth birthday. They taught me to read and figure. Tom absconded one summer night with a young girl, an apprentice cook, never to be seen by me again. I heard he was wounded at the Battle of Mills Springs. Content at Pleasant Hill with my brothers and sisters in the Centre Family, and my warm bed, clean clothes, and the many chairs I made of fine grain maple and cherry, I came at last to believe, more or less.
Tom
I never forgave Ma for leaving us. I was only nine. Pa had died but three weeks before. Henry cried in his sleep for months but said little. He was never much for words. I was so homesick I liked to die. In the cabinet shop I swept up shavings and oiled tools. Brother David admonished me for carelessness and mischief. He sent me to apprentice to the brick shop where I did better. When I was twelve I began to sin in earnest. I lusted after the girls serving us at dinner and the young sisters shaking and singing in the meeting house. I sniffed their white petticoats on the clotheslines. I relished the smell of their sweat. One girl caught my eye because the sun shone beauty on her reddish hair. Ann was a small freckled girl with a soft, round figure and watery blue eyes. I courted her in secret. We met in the haybarn where the swallows had their nests and resolved to marry. Ann was already with child when we ran away to Ohio. I was taken for a soldier before our baby was born. I have no hard words for the Shakers. They raised me up good when Ma would not.
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Cedar Koons
Review by Nancy Christopherson
Indentured is a double persona poem, two sections, two individual speakers, Henry and Tom, brothers, telling their stories from personal perspective, looking back on years. The poem sections read almost like essays, or like phone conversations back and forth. The diction in this poem is perfectly chosen for the context: rural, country-folk dialect, old-timey, somewhat biblical. And the imagery is warm and inviting. “The many chairs I made of fine grain maple and cherry.” I love the way this poet portrays with such genuine authenticity these speakers’ tales in their own voices. Brava for pushing boundaries between essay and poetry, Cedar Koons, who displays her skills and courageous craft in creating this hybrid piece.