Blaine Purcell

              

The Archive Put Us Together: Edgar, 2026

I had never known a man
like Willie. Young and ran
so fast I couldn’t see his face,
just a day-dress catching wind
like an upturned tear. I’m not sure
if Willie was a woman. I saw him
weave that dress on nights
after the coals went cold. Watched him
run and wanted with everything
to do the same. It was a joy to see
Ward so angry. I ain’t never seen him
so worked up over a slave, searching,
for years, without knowing if he put
the right name in the papers. Some truths
even I can’t tell you.

The Archive Put us Together: Charity, 2026

They say I got a large mouth huh?
I intend to use it, 5’5 and hair to the back
of my knees. Yes, they named me Charity
though I ain’t give them nothing
but the miracle of my shadow dancing
behind me as I ran, keep running,
and the only woman woman as me
was Willie–woman burned in her feet
like two stars kikiing into a constellation.
We used to watch them at night. I taught Willie
to walk with a small heel, her light making
a runway across the cold shack. God,
so tall I imagined she could reach Wake
in three steps, tuck the whole plantation
beneath the billow of her dress, the past a red
blush pressed hard against her cheeks, daily.

Biographical Statement

Blaine Purcell (they/them) is a writer from Greensboro, North Carolina currently completing their MFA at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. They are a current reader for Callaloo and the winner of a 2024 University and College Prize from the Academy of American Poets. Their poems have been published or are forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, Kenyon Review, The Pinch, and elsewhere.