In the cushion, along the eaves of the microfiche
I scrolled the pages in 19th century French creole lingo
Days, numbers, places and work
A system signed always by the man on horseback, as I began to imagine him
A whip
Monsieur Chevalier
The man with scriptures and a pen
Detailing those before him in chains, bright—fateful people
Must have been everyday, a matter of fact
That these folks suffered
The pages make it clear in all but their sound
A dead silence, save for the pulling that begins
Somewhere around my stomach
Heaved up, like water drunk too fast
A sour meal
I assumed the pain was passing, hurried my scans to save
Nowhere near the document, the physical
But in black and white hum of lightbox text
I felt the tug
More of a tear, really
The aching
Distant and far away as I read
About the bodies in constant toiling
Summer sweat
Heat and stone
Heaving
From the past into my lap
I felt the blood pool and soak the seat
My first day working at the archives, and the
Memory of shame, helplessness, stained clothing
The heft of the work before me, the endless unnamed Enumerated lives
Breaking the stones, dredging the earth, clearing the streets And I
Filling the chair with blood
Used by permission of the author.
Keeping (and Telling) the Past 