Araminta by Amanda Gunn

Araminta

Before General, before Moses or Harriet, she was

called Minty. Araminta: a name of two roots.

Arabella “yields to prayer”; Aminta “defends.”

And, O, where ends the might of that arm?

Perhaps her mama, Rit, felt the squeeze of Minty’s fist.

Did she know then her child would wander

from the farm? That she would peer into the marsh

and find the face of God, be blinded one day

in the Philadelphia sun? She arrived

in the new world, new city, crated in pine, a burlap

sack unfurled on her body, wrapped tight under turnip

and leek—coffined, confined, taking each squeak

of the wheel as a sign, each noise she heard as a dog

or a man. Trying to mask her human breath,

the stench of sweat on her human skin. She knew

as a girl: those sold South will march there

in coffles, drag chain for miles. Soph and Linah,

Mariah, her sisters, gone. A horizon both

endless and disappearing. Forever out of sight

and hearing and her very capable hands. So, she sang

her plans to “Master” as she passed him: Goodbye,

I’ll meet you in the kingdom. And she bowed as if

in deference, as if going about work, and, missing

her reference, he gave a grimace, a smirk. He thought

her faithful, but dim, off-keeled—just good enough

for the work of his field. He did not know her meaning,

her will, her fist, her fox, her game, her would-not-

yield, her God, her faith, her uppity, her name.