Here Lies a Woman
by JENNY MITCHELL
My first time in Jamaica, I went searching
for her grave on an old plantation site –
house a white museum. Portraits of plump masters
next to cabinets with chains. A dainty whip
beneath a sign, The handle of carved ivory
was made to fit a woman’s hand.
Next to the Union Jack, a flowing gown
placed on a mannikin, keys heavy at the waist,
beside a box of rags, carefully arranged –
Taken from the body of Church Mary
(family name unknown). One of several
slaves on this estate who self-destroyed.
I walk the ghosts of fields next to a carpark
and a restaurant that used to be a jail.
Slaves worked a treadmill here until they died.
The windows with wide bars allow a balmy breeze
relief for lobster-coloured tourists
knuckle-deep in carbs.
They nod to reggae floating from the speakers.
It wafts along a dusty road the enslaved ran.
I stroll, the present day held back by weeping
willow trees; an avenue of dogwood. Leaves
trail towards a sudden sea, rocks like muscled backs.
On the mossy bank, a well-kept grave.
Etched across the headstone is the name Church Mary
above a fulsome epithet – Here Lies a Woman
Constant as The Land. She planted flowers
for her children sold, those lost out at sea.
On nearing death, she took her life.
I watch as children wave, go out, return.
by JENNY MITCHELL
My first time in Jamaica, I went searching
for her grave on an old plantation site –
house a white museum. Portraits of plump masters
next to cabinets with chains. A dainty whip
beneath a sign, The handle of carved ivory
was made to fit a woman’s hand.
Next to the Union Jack, a flowing gown
placed on a mannikin, keys heavy at the waist,
beside a box of rags, carefully arranged –
Taken from the body of Church Mary
(family name unknown). One of several
slaves on this estate who self-destroyed.
I walk the ghosts of fields next to a carpark
and a restaurant that used to be a jail.
Slaves worked a treadmill here until they died.
The windows with wide bars allow a balmy breeze
relief for lobster-coloured tourists
knuckle-deep in carbs.
They nod to reggae floating from the speakers.
It wafts along a dusty road the enslaved ran.
I stroll, the present day held back by weeping
willow trees; an avenue of dogwood. Leaves
trail towards a sudden sea, rocks like muscled backs.
On the mossy bank, a well-kept grave.
Etched across the headstone is the name Church Mary
above a fulsome epithet – Here Lies a Woman
Constant as The Land. She planted flowers
for her children sold, those lost out at sea.
On nearing death, she took her life.
I watch as children wave, go out, return.
Jenny Mitchell is joint winner of the Geoff Stevens’ Memorial Poetry Prize 2019; winner of the Fosseway Poetry Competition 2020; a Best of the Net Nominee; and has just won a Culture Matters Bread and Roses Poetry Award.
Her work has been published in various magazines including The Rialto, The Interpreter’s House, The New European, The Morning Star; and broadcast on Radio 4/BBC2.
A debut collection, Her Lost Language, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), was selected as one of 44 Poetry Books for 2019 (Poetry Wales).
Twitter: @jennymitchellgo
Her work has been published in various magazines including The Rialto, The Interpreter’s House, The New European, The Morning Star; and broadcast on Radio 4/BBC2.
A debut collection, Her Lost Language, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), was selected as one of 44 Poetry Books for 2019 (Poetry Wales).
Twitter: @jennymitchellgo