Plimoth Plantation, 1992
Distant daughter of Hobbamock
paid to stand watch over remains
of his past life.
Hut, line, clay pots, baskets--Homesite--
rebuilt for us tourists,
pilgrim land now walked by the world.
I want to know how they survive today,
the Wampanoags,
the rest,
in such hostile territory.
I have to break through character,
through script,
through recitations on clay and corn
to get to this woman's
heart.
Her war mask slowly cracks
and opens like a gift,
and I receive
her answer:
"Because we love the land."
How rich, to love so surely it carries you through the death of
tradition,
self,
soul--
or not . . .
And I imagine it is like walking
through fallen berries,
trying to shake free the heavy,
rotten deeds
of past and present
that cling
to a great spirit.
|