As seasoned birds drip from an iron spit,
     the Wampanoag stuff apples into deer
And Massasoit opens his quillbox
     for a cut of ottomaocke to pack his pipe.
Standing in the fields, children wait
     for crows to descend, then they mock
And flap in a dance that sends
     each flock back over the hillside.
Afterward, buzzed on the smells
     of meat and sassafras smoke,
Boys realign for snap-the-whip,
     and a servant hides a wooden doll
In a haystack for the girls to find
     and dance among dishes of cream.
In a section of old forest, goodwives
     walk toward the spring, buckets girdered
On their shoulders and more children
     growing inside them, meekly concealed,
As if each wife balances what is hidden
     with her need to hide it beneath a frock.
They whisper to each other about
     the feathers in Massasoit's hair,
His painted thighs, the blue wisp
     from his pipe. He drinks sap straight
From the root. His hair is sleek and long.
     Behind him crabs roast on the fire's lip
And askoot-aquashes simmer
     in pulp and seeds. It is cold by the ocean.
Children run to the fire, breathless,
     pieces of straw stuck to their jerkins
And matted hair, their collars loosened.
     It is getting dark now in Plymouth.
Their cider is gone. Near the cinders
     men kneel in conference with Squanto
And wonder what God has in store
     for them beyond this plentiful year:
A bundle of arrows wrapped
     in a snake skin, savage disease,
A killing frost that would require
     bringing the goats into their kitchens.
Thanks-be-to-God for the salted cod
     in our storehouse, victuals and beer,
Jars of berries picked from the marshes.
     Thanks-be-to-God for these racks of deer,
The blessed gift of Massasoit, our friend.