Waist high wheat once stood
a bowl of plenty wafting warm
in the golden Getty sun.
The field was owned by Rose,
and once had sheen.
By evening of the second day
it flattened and was flayed of wheat.
A sea of men was clotted up,
entangled, torn and cannon-tossed.
As Yanks, then Rebels threshed the field
a different yield was gleaned
that hot July.
A shrieker, brains
upon the breast,
his cries to heaven
lost
because the jaw
was cleft by solid shot
stumbled through the bloody fill
as though Jehovah followed him.
His sword on fire to do His will
until he fell.
But worst of all
the hogs
by nightfall
came.
Hungry,
as their owner's all
were hidden or were fled,
they fed by nose
and by the ear.
Slow motion in their harvest
as they bumped
between the dead,
between the wounded
still with dreams
and night fell in.
As moans gave way
to screams
the moon drew horrors
to a wasted field near Rose Wood.
Abandoned boys
and broken stalks
remembering
where each had stood,
with memories of golden wheat
still twisted in their hair.
Entreating
in the dark
to any spark
of God
still there.
Next: 'Son of Mars'
