Confession

Sir, I guess yur gettin’ on now, but I bet ya
still recollect Mr. Lincoln sendin’ all his blue boys
down south among us God fearin’ Alabama folk.
’Course I did what the good Lord desired

and joined up to beat them bastards back up
old Abe’s ass, but I didn’t stop by to rattle
on ’bout what could of been. Ya see, one time
’fore I discovered the joys of seein’ a Fed squirm

with a blade I planted in his belly, me and a few
from my regiment snuck outta camp and found
us a barrel of shine so smooth it melted ya innards
’fore ya knew what ya swallowed—anyway’s we

were slicked good and hungry like a mole fer dirt
so we slipped through yur farm here hopin’ ta snatch
some eggs fer fryin’, but as the road curled up over that hill
yonder we tripped on yur goats floatin’ in that pasture

like scrawny clouds. Sure as hell, we slit one and fried
it up ’stead of them eggs and I’s here to say I’m sorry
for what we done—but that damn meat was the finest meal
I ate ’fore Lee spoke ta Grant and said it was time ta go home.

Rebel Testimony

Regiment settled near a little church
last Saturday night—tents speckled
graveyard grass, the wings of sleepin’
angels. Every man was listenin’ to

ham sizzle—music near forgotten—
on fires that bloomed like angry roses,
but I snuck off with a blanket and granddad’s
copy of the Good Book. Curled in a corner

of the church, I found Psalm 23—laid my head
on its promises. Grandpa stuck a curl of birch bark
in the pages so I could find it easy. Can’t read
it none, but he said when I went off that Psalm 23

would usher me through shit and hell.
Sunday morning dragged rain off the mountains.
Lord nudged me awake—said it was time to rise.
I asked if He might march with me a spell.

Soldier’s Logic

Cold’s layin’ down over this pond water
like age does on a man. I hear ice
crackin’ sure as my gran-daddy’s
back cricks when he rises too quick.

I bet that crickin’ sound sings
strong when musket fire passes
through bone—snaps it like a stick
locked between a set of beaver teeth—

and I gotta hunch some lead be sniffin’
for my milky ribs. Damn shame my heart
beats under them ribs. Hell, if it stops
clangin’, bones’ll be worth two cents

less than those sticks
that beaver’s been feastin’ on.