Letter IV To an 1830 Henry Yellowboy 45 from a standard issue army boot -
Sharpsberg, Maryland, 1862

Dear Sir,

I embrace with pleasure this opportunity
to write to you, fitly as I can, of the last
day’s events. Would that I could add
the observations of my twin, alas he is
no longer with me, but somewhere
on the bloody brow of South Mountain.
I know a prayer for him is leaving you
even as you read this.

I have been brought to the Antietam
Ironworks as yesterday our pickets
advanced this far to find the enemy
run off. I do not expect to be among those
in pursuit on account of my diminished state.
Neither do I wish to give in to hope
but if I understand what I have witnessed
of others similarly afflicted, I will soon be
worn to hospital or returned home.

I should note that as I write, it is evening
and the camp is besieged by a noise
as I have never before heard. There is a manner
of frog abundant in these parts given
to plighting its troth well unto dawn.
Some of the men complain of poor sleep
and palsied concentration. Indeed, I must
struggle to steady my pen as it tends to vibrate
with their withering songs.

My heart, though halved, hungers for news
of you, but I cannot say with certainty where
I will be in the time it takes for your response
to find me. It seems the essence of war
has become the burning of maps.
Perhaps it is best that you send word
home. Perhaps it will draw me there. 

© Brendan Constantine, all rights reserved. This poem can be found in Letters To Guns. (2009 Red Hen Press)

Brendan Constantine is a Southern California poet and champion for the literary arts. He teaches at the Winward School and is well known for his workshops at Venice's Beyond Baroque. He performs his work across the United States.(more)