Home
Happy for you to sharpen knives here. 
A Civil War Letter
Dear Sister,
As a keeper of letters, please read this,
then tuck it in the back of a sock drawer.
We sisters must stick together.
Before the war, you and I rose and roused
minor moons with our endless motions.
We women moved from quilting
to housekeeping, from canning, to children.
Everything, quite proper and with ease.
We lived without complaint. It was right,
wasn’t it? We kept cheerful homes,
didn’t we?
Five years ago, Lee surrendered.
You’d think everything would be settled.
So why do I question my happier years?
I want to blame something for how I feel.
Sister dear, I drift in and out of thin sleep.
My mind is not the same.
Is it the war or me?
During uncivilized horrors, I stitched clothes,
dug potatoes, hoed a field, wrapped bandages,
prayed for anyone bleeding, suffering, dying.
My days, nothing but grey skies.
But now my bones are unsettled, my voice
lacks a submissive sound, my arms cross
and recross. Hard to blindly sit on a porch,
pour tea, and ignore politics. My thoughts
fight with each other like men on a battlefield.
Sometimes my tone rises to such a pitch
the dog cringes.
My husband wore grey threads. Same as yours.
He does not imagine what lies between
my ears.
Scolding crows. They know and do not keep
my secret. Sheets fly on the line.
Probably a big storm brewing.
A Civil War Letter
Dear Sister,
As a keeper of letters, please read this,
then tuck it in the back of a sock drawer.
We sisters must stick together.
Before the war, you and I rose and roused
minor moons with our endless motions.
We women moved from quilting
to housekeeping, from canning, to children.
Everything, quite proper and with ease.
We lived without complaint. It was right,
wasn’t it? We kept cheerful homes,
didn’t we?
Five years ago, Lee surrendered.
You’d think everything would be settled.
So why do I question my happier years?
I want to blame something for how I feel.
Sister dear, I drift in and out of thin sleep.
My mind is not the same.
Is it the war or me?
During uncivilized horrors, I stitched clothes,
dug potatoes, hoed a field, wrapped bandages,
prayed for anyone bleeding, suffering, dying.
My days, nothing but grey skies.
But now my bones are unsettled, my voice
lacks a submissive sound, my arms cross
and recross. Hard to blindly sit on a porch,
pour tea, and ignore politics. My thoughts
fight with each other like men on a battlefield.
Sometimes my tone rises to such a pitch
the dog cringes.
My husband wore grey threads. Same as yours.
He does not imagine what lies between
my ears.
Scolding crows. They know and do not keep
my secret. Sheets fly on the line.
Probably a big storm brewing.
