We see them from our boat,
these men and women dressed up
in Pilgrim clothes, as if Plymouth
is the new Brigadoon reincarnated
daily around a fake rock.
Had I been a real Pilgrim
I would've run off with a handsome
Medicine Man, slept on rabbit fur.
I would've warned my Medicine man
husband about the carnage already
brewing on the easterly winds.
I would’ve asked him to cast spells
upon all the birds in the forest
so their songs would bring peace
to land-greedy white men with guns
and Indians painting themselves
black and orange beside rising war fires.
Village and woods would be filled
with children of all colors,
beads clattering around their necks,
bellies filled with porridge.
I try to smoke the peace pipe with my lover,
one quarter Indian, himself,
but I never ran off with the Medicine Man
and the birds never sang their magic.
He slashes my throat with a word
and I bleed onto the deck until our boat
is drenched with the color of sunset.
from my book, Sea Trails(www.lummoxpress.com)
(this posting grew out of a discussion with an online friend about fake rocks and the Blarney Stone. Plymouth was our first stop on the '77 trip from Hull to Florida)