FEATURING
PRIS CAMPBELL

Plymouth

We see them everywhere 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,
visited with Pocahontas.
I would’ve warned my Medicine man
husband about the carnage already
brewing in the ships riding here
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 sparkling 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.