Parade: I am Lieutenant – Poem 6

The story continues.

 

The Parade

April 21, 1861

Their uniforms mask
the soft flesh of their innocence.
Each brow is burdened with the weight
of their purpose – to arms, to arms –
to die, to die. I recognize faces.

Taylor Briggs – he carved his name
into his desk: third row, second seat.

Lawrence Mellow – he’d stay long
after class ended, searching for answers:
the best way to kiss a girl.

Now, their muskets are tipped
with a bayonet’s steel, resting
on the pride of squared shoulders.

Stride after stride, they step as one,
closer to the men they’ll become
or the ghosts that will haunt my memory –
for this is war. Blood will have blood –
and they’ve yet to discover they can bleed.