Pilgrims
There was a first ship that brought them
across the black uncharted expanse, to a
distant foreign shore, expected to be more benign
where a pervasive signal, not intended as weapon
a system contrived by the indigenous to track
the positions of their primitive, unseaworthy, craft
accidentally scrambled controls, propulsion
the sextants and charts, the billowing sails
and the ship crashed in the desert moonrise
One pilgrim set foot on the New World
surrounded by spear points, taken as prisoner
scrutinized, after a half-life, frozen as corpse
not a glorious landing about which myths arose
of heartfelt thanksgivings when there were none
when there have been only conspiracies, lies
No one witnessed the Mayflower drop anchor
who could comprehend what that moment meant
who could publish conflicted headlines in newspapers
which their tribe had not developed technology to print
nor would they ever, their culture disrupted, washed
away by the ship, their ships, the ships that once
having started arriving never stopped coming
in waves that lap the shores, the skies
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