Sonnets to the Portuguese

by Mary Elizabeth Naugle

First published in December/January, 2005, Volume 2, Issue 6, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.

The Lost Skeleton of Corte Real

A Borden housewife once dug silt for polish,
But broke off when her spade broke on a relic in
The sands of time that hone steel or demolish.
She hoped for gold but got a crumbling skeleton
In wrappings of rough cloth and rougher bark–
A babe in armour cradled on a gurney.
Brass arrows were aquiver to embark.
Upon the ocean’s breast for life’s last journey.
But rather than cast off in that brave ark
The Great Fire took him up in smoke: a spark.

No brave’s departure could be more ethereal
than the last blazing sendoff of Miguel CorteReal 

The Original Plymouth Rock

Pilgrims did not step or ever write on
That rock whose name would grace a goodly hen.
But intrepid Corte Real did both to Dighton
(A bigger rock) and did it way back when.
Those lines, those cryptic petroglyphs, were writ
Ere Shakespeare’s works (or Shakespeare) had emerged.
And though these lines might have required less wit,
They prove when brave new world with old converged.
For with the coat of arms is carved a date
That shows the pilgrims clocked in rather late.            

We cannot know if Miguel was a sinner,
But he devour’d the first Thanksgiving dinner.           

The Original Plymouth Rock

Pilgrims did not step or ever write on
That rock whose name would grace a goodly hen.
But intrepid Corte Real did both to Dighton
(A bigger rock) and did it way back when.
Those lines, those cryptic petroglyphs, were writ
Ere Shakespeare’s works (or Shakespeare) had emerged.
And though these lines might have required less wit,
They prove when brave new world with old converged.
For with the coat of arms is carved a date
That shows the pilgrims clocked in rather late.            

We cannot know if Miguel was a sinner,
But he devour’d the first Thanksgiving dinner.