Don’t Tread on Me

Go home weary traveler, go home. I do not want you here -here on my uncorrupted soil. I have plenty for the kind buffalo That wanders my fertile plains But I don’t have enough for you -for your greedy ways. Your wooden wheels claw my skin Carving your mark even as you tread pass silently. Deepened ruts that will remain Even after you are gone. You are a plague on me. A pox that leaves gaping sores on my flesh And festering wounds that won’t heal. You are a sickness on me. A contamination that poisons my blood Maligns my body and exposes my soul To atrocities unimaginable. Why do you come? Why do you inflict your selves on me? Haven’t I given you enough? For years I’ve fed you. For years, I’ve sheltered you. For years, I’ve offered up the feast of my bounty. Riches any man would be thankful for -but not you. You have taken too much. You have staked too many claims. You have ripped, and ravaged, and raped me -but no more. Do not tread lightly in this land of promise. Do not drink from waters seemingly pure. Do not sleep silently under starry skies and rustling winds. For my teets are dry and my legs are closed. And a storm is coming, dear one, that you will not survive.

-Lisa Davis, 2009

Copyright ©2009 by Lisa Davis Poetry Excerpt from The Winter

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