Smithereens Press Chapbooks 'Rootless' by Jennifer Matthews | Page 11

Settlers

My ancestors found the word
pioneering
a map to reckless country
all trails ending in gold
lust.
Not for them
the green breast of the new world;
better a homestead
near a muddy river
to perfect the craft
of traps,
the sale of flesh and fur.
They fed offerings
to the ravenous current:
broken wagons,
rebellious slaves,
spent horses.
Any body
yoked to sorrow.
Every Sunday they wove
baskets of prairie grass
to sail, empty,
down the water,
lifting a song of praise:

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