|
Young for an
enlisted man, there he is:
cobalt eyes, long
lashes, glossy curls
spilling from his cap
– someone’s
son, someone’s
sweetheart, in his blue frock coat
stitched in his
hometown, St. Charles, Illinois.
But he’s miles from
home now, far from his sky blue coverlet;
he’s chilled, soaked
by April rain, stiff from a night
spent resting on this
unforgiving Tennessee ground,
for Spring has come
late to Shiloh and the trees are bare.
His musket is an
awkward appendage as he stands
shoulder to shoulder
with the men of the 9th Illinois,
who’ve battled
before. It is the Lord’s Day.
From where he stands
he sees the whitewashed church
he’s heard so much
about. He’d like to go inside, close
his eyes, inhale the
bright stillness, but silence is replaced
by the noise of
gunfire; smoke and dust. The woods
erupt into a hornets’
nest as screaming Confederate soldiers burst
from hiding places,
rushing towards him, straight
towards him. Men
fall to his right, to his left
as he looks on,
paralyzed. “What am I doing here?”
he thinks, and
crumples a flyer in his breast pocket:
“So You Want To Be A
Reenactor?” No more!
He will sell his
musket and frock coat on Ebay; return
home; waltz with his
sweetheart on the wide-planked floor;
sleep under his sky
blue coverlet; go to church
on Sundays; but never
forget April, when Spring
came
late to Shiloh and the trees were bare. |
