Ice on the River

10/28/22

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.

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