Telegraph Office

Soon as he ducked in Abe
…………stuck his right hand with its
……………………spider web of veins straight
into the little wooden drawer
…………where the day’s dispatches
……………………nested like a brood of scorpions
begat by treacheries,
…………incompetence, an appetite
……………………for glory fed by ample
helpings of excuses. Something
…………had to give. Abe thumbed through
……………………each day’s stack as his forehead
slowly creased into a map of how
…………things stood. Then the fingers
……………………of the operator plucked the wires
until some far-off general leapt
…………up in his tent and grabbed his
……………………butt where the stinger had been.

Gettysburg Museum

Case after case of uniforms
that look homemade, front-lit
letters from home, wobbly banjo
ditty through the headphones.
Tarnished Colts and epaulettes –
I’ll bet whoever sewed these fool’s
gold buttons on this major’s tunic
prayed in vain for a steady hand.
A sister maybe, or a church choir
sewing circle. The only miracle
is a vanished torso that could fill
a whole town’s southern pride up
with its sacrificial blood, caught
right here in this mortified tin cup.

Timothy O’Sullivan
“Dead Confederate Soldier in Devil’s Den” 

I’m a blur on the glass-plate
…………histories of the war, arrived
……………………here from Ireland or maybe
New York depending on which
…………sibling you inquired of, learned
……………………to operate my black-caped
camera directly from Matt Brady
…………who was first to take those
……………………stoic portraits of the men
who sent those boys who posed
…………with stoic menace at enlistment
……………………to their graves for consecration
by Abe Lincoln’s conscience. It’s in
…………between where I come into focus:
……………………this stony notch, this sniper’s
rifle propped between his last shot
…………and oblivion – a trigger this Reb never
……………………pulled, because we drug him here
into Devil’s Den, fought at by flies
…………that settled on him before us.
……………………It was only the boys who’d
sit still we could capture, whether
…………before or after. Then the light was
……………………gone, as forever filled slowly with cicadas.

© Ed Granger

Ed Granger lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where he works for a healthcare non-profit in a vain attempt to pay for his daughter’s horseback riding lessons. His poems have appeared in Little Patuxent Review, Potomac Review, Naugatuck River Review, Philadelphia Stories, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Delmarva Review, and other journals.

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