a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue

by Sean Hill

Fire can burn brands
on a slave’s skin
as he changes hands
like cattle. And chattel slavery
in a capital city
is as old as fire and man.
Milledgeville’s no different.
It’s twelve noon,
and the assembly’s just adjourned;
the State House is aflame
and water won’t reach the heights
a slave can. Sam’s a bondsman.


The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…

Without word from his master, Sam fights the flames.
The townsfolk fearing Sam might slip and fall
from that tremendous height
look on with agonizing solicitude.
As he tears flaming shingles from the steep pitch
white folks move official records, furniture, and money
from under that roof
to a safer place, safer that any
Sam and his issue yet know.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire,
We don’t need no water…

We cannot pass in silence
over the exemplary conduct
of a Negro man named Sam,
the slave Mr. Marlowe of this place.
And the legislature
will reward Sam’s fast action,
heedless of his own safety, by appropriating
$1,600 for the purchase
of his freedom
from John Marlow.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire,
We don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn

Poem copyright 2009 by Sean Hill. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Sean Hill on The Fight & The Fiddle: “They Shower Us with Kisses or Bullets Depending,” “How a Father Should Talk with His Son,” and  “For Us.” 

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt