Augusta Savage

Leap-Year Baby

Augusta Christine Fells, 2/29/1892

Born on a date that in most years doesn’t exist—

the only recluse of the calendar—

born on the bonus day, the extra day,

that falls every fourth year, for some reason

most people can’t explain or understand.

To age by leap years, one to every four

years aged by ordinary people who

sprint toward their end. A leaper’s free to choose

to celebrate on February twenty-eighth,

or March first, or February twenty-ninth,

thus choosing how old, how special, to be.

Leap-year babies believe they are unique.

They know they’re born to make something happen.

But all of us are born knowing that. Right?

First Duckling

Gus Fells, 1898

from squish

to a formable ball,

head, body

wings, tail, feathers detailed by fingernails,

and to the pond-seeing eyes, the slightly smiling beak

coming closer and closer to a heartbeat in the caught

breath of a colored girl who feels like God

Fifth Duckling

Birth Order

Augusta, born seventh of fourteen

The firstborn child is a perfectionist.

The second child is a people-pleaser.

The third child is a little hellion.

The fourth child feels somehow different.

The fifth child is a perpetual sidekick.

The sixth child seethes with secret rebellion.

The seventh child is beaten for making art.

The eighth child wins the blue ribbon for charm.

The ninth is shy; the tenth an extrovert.

The eleventh child can disappear at will.

The seventh child is beaten for making art.

The twelfth and thirteenth children are a set.

The fourteenth child is the baby for eighty years.

The seventh child is beaten for making art.

The Figure of a Frog

for Augusta Savage

Wildfire

The child made tiny somethings from pinches

of the clay she found right in the backyard.

Enough ducklings for a duckling parade,

enough little bunnies and mice to bring

the other children to squeals of delight.

A large family of small laughing pigs.

Banjo-playing, fiddling, cakewalking dogs.

But the God of her father sent Moses

down from the mountain with that Thou Shalt Not

against making images. Her father’s

fear of his God drove him to search for her

secret hiding places, to cut switches,

to beat the living daylights of art’s sin

out of her, a man beating back wildfire.

Fingers Remember

No Clay

While the Whole White World was at war

the Fellses grabbed the golden ring

of opportunity and moved

lock, stock, barrel, kit and caboodle

a few steps up to West Palm Beach.

There was a colored high school there, and jobs.

Gussie went back to school. Studied,

learned. Peace reigned in her father’s house.

Birth siblings and siblings-in-law,

nieces and nephews aplenty,

a table grace before each meal,

a nice young man to walk out with:

She was almost happy. Almost

forgot art, forgave the beatings.

But she could find no clay. No clay.

Strut, Miss Savage

What girl wouldn’t marry a guy

with such a terrific name? Who,

given a choice, wouldn’t toss off

her meh surname, like a wedding

bouquet, and become a Savage

from now on in? To choose her name,

and to create her own future,

to name herself herself, set free

of all of her past but the love.

Augusta Savage. Mrs. James

Savage. Mrs. Fierce. Mrs. Strong.

Miss Tiger with the secret smile,

in her own home, with her own man

who has vowed to love her daughter

as if she were his, and who stopped

the wagon at Chase Pottery

and waited while his wife ran in

to introduce herself, who jumped

out and ran to help her carry

the buckets of clay Mr. Chase

had given her. Me. Augusta

Savage. My new name, my true life.

Making

Before I knead, clay

is white canvas, empty page,

a night without dreams.

Little warming lump,

you look back out of my palm,

ask me for a face.

Shapes I remember

with the tips of my fingers

emerge, and confess.

The duckling parade

I made and Papa destroyed