[Posterity, this me is Now—]

Posterity, this me is Now— Record this Now.Virginia, 1705 Not always settled. I am settled Over history’s yellow pages, blank Pages, must I write my old dark Thoughts: Does time mask or unmask Mind? This sweet almond now In my mouth as in their mouths Then, sweet in its rind, but silent I think: I am blood at oak, my hand A blood petal unfurled over oak, My desk, my wooded den, a pistil, A pen. Believe me: I speak honest And true. First. Economy ravishing and jealous In woods, the virgin woods. Sap is sweet so sap quarrels On the tongue. What is worth Worth? Sap sweet so sap ambers; In the virgin woods none can cut The profit from the tongue. Amber Gold so gold whispers at the edge Of each, our minds. The Natives Wear skins on skin; the women Bare their breasts and do not Blush. Was she a King’s daughter? She walked below the branches; The sun thin in silken lines The sated spiders left. Her brothers Showed us what seeds to sow. Glass beads contain light, a miracle To trade. Her skin a syrup Tone, the beads gold against her Wrist glowed. Midnight her crown Of hair plaited with one strand Of gold, thin as day’s edge when dusk Both dulls and hones that glow. “We’ll barter it.” Her brother feels Cheated when we offer a bolt Less of wool than he asks. Write it Down. Profit in black ink. They close Their eyes, quick as bark blinks Down dark on axe’s silver bite, When the deal is done. The ledger’s Honest, “I am a liar. Be aware.” Then. Pluck the withered gold at hand, The pumpkin leaves yellow, Sere and dust. Neglect the acre. Let the green aphids multiply And suck. We teethed our vision: A yellow sort of isinglass dust, Sunlit in silt, under the water Of our stream. The squash blossom Closed its eye; we squinted to see Beneath the stream. That summer We fed our hearts on dust. We grew Dust in gardens. We grew rich Until the gold sheen disclosed It was but gilded dust. We lived Some time on mussel, crab, berry, Those fruits of the wild earth. No one Spoke the word “starving.” We were Forced to be content with what fell Just in our mouths. Earlier Than First. Thought in the forest speaks A wooden chorus. My own voice Multiplied the almond by the pine. Roanoke,1588. Repaired the houses Now grown up with weeds. We make wooden houses. How quiet One voice, mumbling verses out The wilderness, by the fire In the corner. Bibles clothed in skin As the Natives come clothed.Exodus A comfort: to be chosen, safe, God spoke in smoke by day, in light By night. A manna faith—of manna. When Mr. White arrived, late August 1590,