I abandoned my thatch, my cobblestones, my tolerant Dutch protectors.
For barren oak trees. On empty shores. Under grey skies. The cold bites me in the arse.
I died in great numbers. Half of me died. Most of my women.
I am not a Sachem, God damn it! I cannot heal. I cannot lead. And God did not help us.
We have nothing to give thanks for.
I see Natives.
Squanto was not a Wampanoag.
He was a Patuxet.
Captured and sold off in Spain in a bundle,
Packaged with fish and corn.
Squanto unbundled himself.
Escaped the Spaniards.
Traveled to England.
Returned alone to the New World.
He spoke many languages but had no identity.
His people also had died.
The rest of the poem lives here.
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