This is the first Civil War poem I wrote. It was published several years ago in a literary journal titled 2River View . I hoped to illustrate war’s equal treatment of all those involved.
Fallen Soldiers in the Wheatfield - Gettysburg, Pa.
Gettysburg: the Wheatfield
1. Billy Yank
Flies circle his head
like a black halo,
lay their eggs near the bullet
lodged in the meat of his brain.
Scattered among the trampled blades,
like broken pottery –
fragments of skull.
Before the colonel
gave the order to advance,
he pinned a note to his uniform.
My name is Jonathan Victor
and I love my mother.
He imagined her proudly smiling
as the morning sun darted
off the golden buttons
that adorned his blue coat.
2. Johnny Reb
A scrap of Confederate flesh
burdens the flaxen head of a wheat stalk
that arches toward the ground
like a cricket leg
the moment before it springs.
Back home, a little girl,
dirt creeping over her feet
like a pair of old socks,
scratches her name in the mud
behind the pig trough.
S A R A H
Smart as she is, Pa will hug
her good and tight
once the war says
he can go home.
