Civil War

I killed where you wanted: Culp’s Ridge, a grove of peaches at Gettysburg, the Spotsylvania courthouse—such an undeserved plot for tens of thousands to cross over and over their last gullies down with one leg and shrapnel wounds. Country means something else, from inside a leaky courthouse, when America is warring with itself. Pittsburgh balls zip over heads in an embankment. When a brave one goes over he drops first—a steel town—miles and miles away. Then another: a mill in Ohio falling with a wife and her mud bricks. In Tennessee a mother sways and counts the men running through the fog while the possums under the porch play raccoon.

But now they say, We're sorry...But we won, and anyways: you’re welcome. Don't you see

How comfortable you are? Didn't you hear me fight? That was for you. And plus we made a special bridge for you, and it's made of lights.

Fuck that, I'd say. Get a rifle, sit on a hill and wait. They'll be waiting too, and when they turn the lights off, start firing. You won't hit them all, but remember: the bullets that miss will fly around the world and land in your back—

You'll fall and they’ll dress you in a bright blue uniform, place you in a display case with a skinny white soldier who's dressed the same, and put on a parade. They'll take your rifle and tuck it in his arms. place your hand on his chest—rest your head on his shoulder. The caption below both your feet will read: 

This is how the war was won.