The Quilters of Gee’s Bend

Seems like that old river tied

itself in a knot just to keep

black folks there at Gee’s 

Bend while time and fortune 

swept on by.

And Master Pettway gave

those folks his name, 

but stripped everything else 

he could. Left just scraps, 

but they were used to that.

So those hands that hardly 

needed something else to do

unraveled their worn-out

world. Pieced together

remnants of Africa

and raggedy dreams 

to make something new.

Let dress tails dance

with britches – heat from

the cotton fields pressed

deep in their seams.

So tired of plowed furrows,

they let their stitches bend

now and then just like

that river. Nothing perfect,  

yet God was in the details.

And the quilters called that

making do and visiting and

keeping warm and pulling up

memories each night, 

till one day they were told – 

we call that art.

© 2008 Alarie Tennille

First published in Poetry East

Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize,

poem of the month in a Goodreads poetry contest.