Twenty-eight of the Mayflower’s party,
Leiden Separatists, Clyfton faithful—
sick of James’ church, of persecution, pleas
for freedom ignored, executions—sail
for two months, cramped and unwashed, anchoring
in Provincetown Harbor, then take on flu,
scurvy, New England winter’s gnashing sting
slashing through their flesh. What humans won’t do
to worship as they will, their fresh prayers
praising the sky for this chance to chant words
of their own, not some central rule. They stare
at Wampanoag fleeing in fear, gird
to fight then enfold them. Soon they’ll plant corn,
build a common house, far from England’s scorn.
Roger Armbrust
November 26, 2008
