The Fall of Miss Sopa, Eater of Clay
by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
Sopa Abraham Botswana Johnson b. 1907 .
Before three men and ten babies
parted her legs with a prayer,
Miss Sopa danced at the shore
with the women of time,
the women who ate clay
and kneeled naked
in autumn water at dawn.
.
She danced to the beat
of the beacon, bright
in her bones, then gone.
She danced a celebration
of Someday.
She danced in the breath
of the water,
water the breath
for all men.
.
Makers of clay, eaters of clay,
morphine for the women—
blue gray and smooth,
cool through her teeth.
Her stomach filled with clay.
She sang for breath
in spite of the clay
in her throat.
.
Men came and babies came.
Only the babies stayed
to bite the ends
of her night numb breasts.
Only a scar remained
on her sweet dark cheek,
shaped like an open mouth,
full of fat, white teeth.
.
She lived in a shack
held together by shadows
and filled the holes
in her walls with clay–
.
Clay that cracked
and crumbled on the floor.
Clay swept outside
by a pinestraw broom.
Clay gummed babies
(eight was all she had left).
.
One got caught
in a chicken wire fence.
One lost an eye on Good Friday.
One lost her foot in a Goodwill shoe
when an axe dropped
from a large, hard hand.
.
Summers, she worked in quiet dirt,
through shimmers of heat, each year
a baby strapped to her back, rocked
to sleep by the bending; her songs
captured in straw baskets rustled
tobacco leaves like hungry birds.
.
She taught her daughters
how to walk tall
in thick-skinned mud
where she learned to crawl.
.
One by one her babies left.
One by one they came back
like cats, proud of the clay
they held in their mouths
but not enough teats
to go around.
.
Stretchmarks of red spread
across the setting sky
that last fall when Miss Sopa
led the women, hand in hand,
clothed in skin, three miles
to the Promised Shore
beyond sun dotted woods.
.
They covered their tongues
with a thunderstorm of mud.
In a crash of tambourines,
they washed away the blood
beside a leaf-wet, fallen pine.
.
A shrine for the sinners,
the makers of clay.
you are a poetry weaver a master of character development 🙂
This is just amazing Julie. I love the tone here set by the hypnotic repetition of “clay” and mirrored in birth and the rhythms of life, the harvest, the songs. This is mythic but told in the details of living, a real achievement.
Hi, Scot. Great to see you as always. I hope your work’s going well. And thanks much. Miss Sopa’s another good soul I love.
Hi, Nathan. Now I repeat myself. Ha! But thanks for dropping in. I appreciate the kind words. I almost included a “history” of the poem, but it was so long, I decided to leave it out for fear of the poem getting lost in the history.
Thanks again, y’all. I’ll be checking out your new work, too.
can you write the history as a separate entry? I’d love to hear it, as I loved the reading of this poem. You bring these people to life.
Sure thing, Nan. The funny thing is I’ve had six people e-mail me today with the same request. I’ll definitely get it up there. I’ll try to do so in the next couple of days.
I think I said this to you before…if not, I should be slapped!
I love your work at Word Catalyst. Thanks so much and thanks for dropping in.
Hi, Julie! I’ll come back to read your poem tomorrow. It’s late now, almost time for bed. I just wanted to let you know about a new writing thingy going on at the poetry collaborative. Thought you might want to participate.
http://thepoetrycollaborative.org/2008/09/26/writing-prompt-method-acting/
**********************************************************************
Hi, Christine! Thanks for the invite. I’ll get over there and check it out. -Julie
Perfectly lovely.
I just love:
parted her legs with a prayer
and can’t get over:
Men came and babies came.
Only the babies stayed
to bite the ends
of her night numb breasts.
The rhythm is amazing as are the images but most I love the characters you create and how nature becomes embedded within flesh.
Hi, Brigindo! Thank you so much. It’s great to see you. Miss Sopa was a wonderful woman, so I really appreciate your kind words.
A stunning narrative poem. What a character, she is so real, yet of a world very different than mine. You hooked me right in.
Thank you again, Christine. Anyone who admires Miss Sopa is alright by me:) Have a good one.
Julie, as always I so adore your work. You have a true southern soul, and these lines are so filled with something so spiritual, I feel I’ve been to church. I am reminded of Zora Neale Hurston’s stories…and a mentor of mine, Marcia Douglas…look up her work…magical realism.
Hi, Holly! You are so nice. I don’t deserve to be in the same breath with those two greats! They are amazing. I put them at the top of the list. There are certain writers that are so great I am in awestruck wonder. But I will lick the platter clean with your praise and say thank you very much! You’re a kind soul, and I appreciate your visits and thoughtful comments.
Yes, wonderful narrative with such magical realism….gorgeous. Each one of your poems is a gift. And I mean that.
Hi, Jo! Thank you again. I keep saying this, but I’m so glad to see you’re back from your workshop & I look forward to seeing what inspired you while you were there.
I’m blown away by this prose poem. Your words humble me as you describe the strength of this woman with imagery and metaphor so vivid. Yet, I also feel proud to be an independent woman, part of this ancestral bond. The pungent smell and moist feel of the earth permeates me as I read your inspiring writing.
Hi GeL. I appreciate your kind comments. It’s always great to know when someone feels a bond with Miss Sopa. Thanks so much for your visit!