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| The Luncheon Ladies for M.A.S. "We could not conceive it could happen, so madness defeated our doubt, pummeled by palpability, disbelief cowering in corners ill-suited for anyone's safety." An acre or two of parasols and lace, broods of sliced cucumber and bread, sweet berry desserts, nests of silk fans made for play- perfect gandering for flocks. Pluming themselves for imminent victory in this show of a gentleman's war, chirping antebellum anthems in heated secessionist sun, applause for sharp- looking soldiers approaching, white hands cracked at the air, the deafening splinter of gunshot... What did they think of just then? Did refined smiles flee from their faces, frantic hordes driven off? Did they drop their tarts to hurtle and help, or did they just sit there in shock? In time, they must have gone home again. But, what did they say to their children? |
| Moments Poems from the Battlefield a work in progress Copyright 2005-2008, K. Mercurio Gotthardt |
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| Endurance Test We used to play a game. We called it endurance, kids in a barn on a hot day, dressed in winter clothes and hay, windows shut up tight, sun beating the building like a fist, swelter building like a storm. We'd see who could last longest and who would want mercy earliest. Sometimes, we'd hold our breaths, let the sweat and panic breathe for us, a competition of pain. I always won, always outstayed the others who gasped for arid air. I knew how to inhale hard and hold. I knew how to hurt and keep quiet. I was born for being. I joined the war at sixteen, endurance enlisting with me. Four years of war and more, I survived the perennial march. I held the heaviest pack. I could walk without water, wearing the white flannel and wool of our regiment even in August weather. There was nothing I could not carry like a mercenary, someone made for war. Except that unseasonable afternoon, the General holding his hat in his hands and staring us in the eyes, his own muggy with the graying day. He told us the war was over. He told us we could all go home. He told us all to live our lives, to find our mothers, our sisters, our children, our wives. And I remember thinking, what home? What life? What family, children or wife? I was made for endurance. What would I do without war? |
| Motivational Speaking Wool is an itchy havoc-- I wear balm to soothe my skin, hives swelling and reddening beneath my uniformed self, while within these murkiest of war-torn boundaries, when the fields have emptied themselves of blood-soaked soldiers and rebels, I rip the white wool from my back, inhale the day of dismemberment, taste the gunpowder setting a trap: I curse my men and damn them for failure in this burnt battle air, my own cannon fire assaulting them like the enemy's arrogant dare. |
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| The Spoils You revel in my fear, exchange your humanity for your lecherous feast of terror, relish the strain of my fingers against your rope, thirst in your drool as you wait to see me writhe or hear me whimper. You know I am unyielding, refusing to leak a sound for your satisfaction, spicing your taste for challenge, your arousal swelling like a starving stomach. Were I weak and pathetic, immediately screeching like a wounded bird, your interest would drop. But I am not. You thrive on this lengthening torture, growing your flaccid ego, each moment adding to your lust and laughter. You prefer my fright to my death, my panic to pain, but I prefer life despite you. I will refuse to die. And you refuse to set me free, marking my mind for your pleasure, my body for mocking myself, my spirit for quiet death, and calling it spoils of war. |
| After the Armies How do we manage these moments, the minutes we've wished out of time, the places we pretend we never have been, the scenes we have scratched from our minds? How do we manage these moments, the barracks, the tents, or the guard shacks, two empty buckets poured into the cracks dividing the driest of earth? Thorned bush mark a country torn, plants dense with phony polemics, we stink of those who say they believe, covering our ears with weathered hands while we scream, "Enough!" How do we manage these moments when seconds can shred our senses, the last bit of logical sun snuffed out like assumptions of enemies that kept us alive? Where should we bury our hearts and our memories to uncover after the war? And will we be able to find them again where armies have rampaged before? |
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| Blue Child Never had it occurred to me your tears might look like mine, here, your thin, body bent across my porch, face a pot boiling into fire, sizzle of exacerbated flame, blaze striking out and up to fight each drop, wetly distrupting its burn. No, I did not think I would meet at my door North soldier, dark soldier, tired as resigning day, that I'd recognize that sinful sadness, the one that has eaten our good years gone, the ever-smolder of embers and anger, built by coal and smoke and iron and labor, raked daily of expendable ashes, making room for another night's meal. I did not know I would see you, my younger, freer self, that I would ever look into your expering eyes, the eyes I should see as my enemy's, that all I would see is a crying child wearing the burden of blue. |
| Winter's Prisoner This frozen grass, shattered glass from some rough blower, creased boots, careless and unconcerned, your lead of men like you through the shards of wrecking, rifle at my back, your voice cold as a northern river: "You have no rights here, Yankee." When we reach your encampment, the true testing will begin: every morning's rope-burned wrists, a smattering of grits, two sips of black coffee from your dented cup, no more until you've marched me miles through your icy fields. |
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