by Andy Hall
Reb Considers Grant
by S. Thomas Summers
I picture his face lost in shadows
cast by the same hood death likes wearin'.
Really can't see his eyes—too dark.
Just a cigar stickin' out, smolderin'
like a cannon that's been fired and fired again.
I hear he takes long drags on that cigar—
tip burns red like the fires of hell.
And he brands the ones he wants dead,
grinds that flame and ash against your skin.
Once you got the mark, you might as well
start diggin' a hole to spend eternity in.
I understand his very step makes
the earth start bleedin' and now he's
pushin' toward us. Guess we gonna
be hip deep before we know it.
S. Thomas Summers is a teacher of Writing and Literature at Wayne Hills High School in Wayne, NJ and an adjunct writing professor at Passaic County Community College in Wanaque, NJ. He blogs original Civil War poetry at Lint in My Pocket—Artillery on the Ridge. Used with permission.
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to email@example.com.