348. CANARSIE

CANARSIE
From beyond the Brooklyn meadows comes the sound of
something roaring. A surfeit of consolation, this enormous
content rises - from the land, from all its tombs, and
from the edges of the very sea itself. We are at
the end of this land now and, lacking new room to
move, must stay in place and take what comes.
A raging water, a field of spite.
-
There are still those ragged Indians to circumscribe;
they have been left about, bedraggled and
forgotten. We've let them mend their
tents and their roundhouses - after
the fires had burned down there
wasn't much left of anything anyway.
They can leave or seek now their own
foul salvation, as we are done with them
and all their chilling ways. Canarsie Indians
indeed! We should have marked them from the start.
-
Being nice to someone only has its drawbacks
after you win - they are conquered and you
are stuck with them. Feed me! Tender me
whatever you can! I can do nothing
without you! Soon enough, the master
becomes the slave. A lesson to
be learned only now, after
it's far too late.