MAMOU FRANÇOIS

When I walk to the market with my pots,
my hands are steady, my back straight.

The earth is beneath my feet, and over my head.
The weight of it is on me, in me, through me.
I cannot stop for anything.
Not for the heat.
Not for the rain.
Not for the men who stare at my body like it’s not my own.

I walk because if I don’t,
the pots will slip.
The clay will break.
And everything I have will shatter.

I know how to carry the pots,
how to walk like I’m not carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders— though I am.

I walk because there’s no one else to do it,
because children must be fed,
because mouths wait at home—
hungry.

I don’t make the pots,
I only sell them,
but I carry them like I made them,
like my hands shaped the clay,
molded the vessels
that hold the life of the village.

I never show weakness,
I never stumble,
I never let them see me sweat.

The men who sit in the shade,
their arms crossed,
the ones under the bare mango tree, with their wandering eyes, will take everything from me if they see I am tired.

They’ll think I am less than the pots I carry.
So I keep walking,
feet steady on the dirt path,
head high.

I must be careful of the cracks—
the cracks in the pots,
the cracks in my spirit.

The men who sell fish, the ones who sell sugar, they may think themselves more important, but I know better.

I sell the pots that hold the food they sell. I sell the pots that make the food bearable.

Without me, there’s no meal, no community.

The pots are made from the clay of the earth, from soil that belongs to none.
But on my journey, the pots belong to me, in the only way they can:
in the shape of a vessel.

I carry it because I must,
because I have no choice,
because no one else will.

And when the day ends,
when the sun sinks low and the market empties, I walk home,
feet sore, heart heavy.

I will rest, but only for a moment,
because tomorrow will come,
and I will walk again.

The pots will wait for me.
I will carry them,
and they will carry me.