by David Dresner I figured all of them for the itch, and not the camp itch that our men have, but the seven year kind. Even the little one with the crescent moon scar from her temple to her chin: She had it too! There were children all over the house. Children hanging from oil lamps, fatherless and filthy, curled up on the floor, needing milk, medicine, climbing the pantry, needing more. They were looking at me like I was their pa, asking when the war was going to be over, asking me to stay, to help. I decided against … Continue reading The Itch
by David Dresner “Are you hurt badly?” Sherman asked me at the Creek. Mother, I can even remember your breasts. “I was ordered to take those works, Sir.” Father, I lost your watch along the way. “I’ve got a little job for you,” I told the good doctor. “Cut that leg off.” Sister, you were our mother after she flew away. “They were going to the front for glory and I was going to the rear disabled.” Brother, I will be your father after he is gone. “Then I cried like a child – yes, like a child!” God, you … Continue reading Shot on the Fourth of July
I sleep above a war.
I dream of muskets shooting at me through the pines, Continue reading Cannonball Man