The dreaded crossing
of that damnable Delaware.
Rowing and shivering all night.
A war of “treason”
on Christmas Day
to get to Trenton
by early majestic morn—
a surprise attack at daylight.
But to a child—
an expert on color—
war is a red stain on white.
Bayonets in hand.
Marching through the mud
with the saving grace of memories
of a clean shave,
Sally Brown with her yellow bonnet,
worshipping in her wooden pew,
and the wind,
wafting the dreamy scent of apple pies
(on window sills) down the country road
where farmers’ only foe
is rocky, arid soil.
The smoke of canons
obscures the delicious thrill of victory.
I am drunk. I am dirty. I am dizzy.
Stray bullets slip passed me
faster than I can write.
This flag. That flag.
Which is which?
And which is right?
Hundreds of years later,
I can still sense the smoke in my lungs.
X-rays show I have multiple tumors,
the size of musket balls
I can taste when I breathe and cough.
Blood in my saliva is my tribute
to the expired letters never sent
of soldiers in the ground—
Loyalists’ battles almost won
and Patriots’ battles almost lost.