6120. WHERE I SIT

WHERE I SIT
(to my sister maisy, 1862)

Where I am sitting is pain  -  a flaming

ulcer would have nothing on this, to show,

nor to proclaim. My wind-shaft atop this

regal barn has no movement left  -  neither

north nor south merits interest. Every civilian

has already left this war, or been killed. I feel

slain, myself; or dripping with dead blood.

Someone is pulling up the rear with a wagon

for field-dressing the wounded, the funeral

bier on wheels, as well, follows that. The few

horses left just whinney and gaze for something,

anything, to do. It's said that Lincoln himself

will be coming to view the scene. That Whitman

fellow  -  the strange man with those funny words  -

he's been here already, but there's little left behind.

I spoke to him but he just nodded, and said something

about a 'brotherly, comrade love', or similar. I'm

still sad. Or, yet, sad. No, I don't want to be still.
---
['This note was found, still clutched in the hand of
Henry Clagger, NY Battalion 4, Highlanders, at
Millrush Falls, May 9, 1862. His body was found,just
as he'd died, propped against a tree-stump, facing east,
along the open field.' - field orderly, Micah Jennings].