SACRED HUMP



Just a hump of land rising off Rt. 122 in
            Grafton, Mass., like the back of some harpooned 
       whale lashed to a hunting ship
   for all eternity,

the sign, "Indian Burying Ground,"
     the unmarked stones, tell
                 us that here once the Hassanamiscos 
          lived, a "friendly

band of Nipmucs,"
   in a wilderness they called
          Wabbequasset, near the pond
Naggawoomcom, weaving willow
  
            baskets by the Blackstone,
    in their village Hassanamesit,
             this, before the epidemics, this,
                     before Rev. John Eliot, Bible-

 and blunderbuss-armed, arrived anno domini 1654, 
          and preached them to their knees, invoking
    divine ordinance to cut their hair, to cover 
            their breasts, to remain chaste, and, Praise the     
       
               Lord, to stop cracking head lice with 
  their teeth, under pain of five shilling
                     fines, "civilizing" them
                                         into selling their

land, all seven thousands acres, minus 
                the hump, with proceeds proceeding to
      state guardians too busy 
                      with God's work to remember

         Praying Indians whose prayers went 
    unanswered, and whose petitions appeared 
                  mere unmarked stones to those busy
            building their shining "City Upon A Hill,"

and there's this hump in Grafton, this bump by the
      the  side of the road, and a sign somewhere
             in town that boasts, "These 4 1/2 acres have 
never been owned by the white man."


Grafton, Mass.
July 30, 2004
    

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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