Mead told his commanders
how the Union lines would form
and where they'd end,
he'd had a plan.
A careful man.
Sickles disagreed,
and like a lamb lost
looked for better ground.
He marched his men
to peaches
in an orchard
high
and hung there
bright as fireflies are at night
and unsupported
like a kite without its wind.
Barksdale bayed all day
to hit that orchard
with his proud and
eager
Mississippians.
At four o'clock
they rocketed
from trees
near Spangler's farm.
Unprotected,
spread like geese in flight formation
Sickles' men fell with the peaches
stippled flesh and fruit were dotted
like pink blossoms
all around.
Barksdale's boys pushed on
and came a roaring through
the Northern lines.
Flames through tinder,
nothing save an act of God
could hinder him
his white hair flying wildly
screaming Southern cries
of honor's yoke.
The left flank had to hold
and Bigelow was told
his battery must stay
and face the wall of
thunder guns.
Not turning backs to Barksdale
he retreated by prolonge,
fired a fatal fury backward
letting gun recoil lead them.
"Fire!", and then the few feet backward.
Deadly feet and dying gunners
going heartbeats bursting backward
all the way to Trostle Farm.
Brave Bigelow though wounded
kept his head and hurled his heart
at riots of the Rebels
as his horses blew apart.
Fifty horses turned to corpses
in the field in front of Trostle.
Legs in air, in solid rigor
like a crop of evil harvest
grown to lend some minutes
precious
to an army of despair.
Sickles lost a leg
but grew a legend
through the years,
that pricked the souls of mothers
for the sons they trade
for folded flag
forever stiff with tears.
Next: 'Man On A Mountain'
