Oh, the heroic pilgrims!,
who chose the Mayflower
when the Speedwell floundered,
off to a new world despite the danger.
Half the saints died that first winter,
but no one chose to return to England.
Instead they set shod feet on Plymouth,
believed God stormed them North,
believed God bequeathed the new land,
to have dominion over and flourish.
But other humans tilled the land,
hunted the pristine forests,
fished the teeming waters.
Given a choice to cooperate in peace,
our ancestors chose
the railroads over the buffalo,
the natives getting in the way.
Sent passenger cars to the herds,
shooting helpless creatures
from open windows,
leaving bodies to rot,
using nothing of value
as the natives preserved all.
Rail-crossed the nation.
Now we dignify our first people
by damning racist mascots,
keep natives the poorest among us.
Our cars cross those tracks—
dirt and iron—
on the way to prosperity.
Originally published in Poesis Magazine