Pocahontus In The Old World

 

 

In the wind, she hears a language

beyond song finch and fountain –

hands sorting through clam shells, water

running over nets made of vine, the paddling

of canoes.

 

Here time moves slowly, promenading

through green circles and rows – as if

the hours were laced, stiffened

by a farthingale – she now wears

restricting her own movement. A basket

turned upside down, meant to carry

nothing but the weight of fashion

and protocol she barely understands.

 

Her wilderness is a ghost

shadowing the ether, trying

to repossesses its beautiful

young body.

 

And yet, she fears its presence

going back to the wild breadth

of something that will be vanquished.