Custer Shoots his Horse* **
Here is General Custer:
A figure on foot
against the wild grass of the plains.
Gory with horse brains,
walking miles from the corpse
of his mount,
through whose head
he himself fired
the accidental bullet, after
breaking ranks to chase
a horizon of buffalo.
His canary moustaches are
crimsoned with gore.
A cloud of shining flies trails him.
His feet inside buckskin boots
are open wounds.
Bruised, lost, battered, yes.
Also laughing to himself,
his grin as white
as the century will allow.
Boy General,
Death is still for others.
And the sky is great above him, great
as war for him is great
as the grassland seeding burrs
into his boottops
is great.
He raises a gloved hand to his men,
who have found him undefeated
once again, found him
unashamed at his own folly.
Laughing at himself,
with yet another story for the campfire.
No tragedy, just yet:
In the Black Hills they will all
play baseball, bathe in creeks,
find gold and grizzly bears to pillage.
Only later will he lead them all
to slaughter.
Why can’t we have our wisdom
while our knees are young, America?
And our chariots returned unbent by war?
*(During his first campaign against the Cheyenne in 1867, General Custer galloped off after a herd of buffalo, aimed his revolver — and shot his own horse through the head. On foot, bruised and totally lost, he had to be rescued by his own men.)
** Originally appeared in PiF Magazine Issue No. 186 ~ November, 2012
Here is General Custer:
A figure on foot
against the wild grass of the plains.
Gory with horse brains,
walking miles from the corpse
of his mount,
through whose head
he himself fired
the accidental bullet, after
breaking ranks to chase
a horizon of buffalo.
His canary moustaches are
crimsoned with gore.
A cloud of shining flies trails him.
His feet inside buckskin boots
are open wounds.
Bruised, lost, battered, yes.
Also laughing to himself,
his grin as white
as the century will allow.
Boy General,
Death is still for others.
And the sky is great above him, great
as war for him is great
as the grassland seeding burrs
into his boottops
is great.
He raises a gloved hand to his men,
who have found him undefeated
once again, found him
unashamed at his own folly.
Laughing at himself,
with yet another story for the campfire.
No tragedy, just yet:
In the Black Hills they will all
play baseball, bathe in creeks,
find gold and grizzly bears to pillage.
Only later will he lead them all
to slaughter.
Why can’t we have our wisdom
while our knees are young, America?
And our chariots returned unbent by war?
*(During his first campaign against the Cheyenne in 1867, General Custer galloped off after a herd of buffalo, aimed his revolver — and shot his own horse through the head. On foot, bruised and totally lost, he had to be rescued by his own men.)
** Originally appeared in PiF Magazine Issue No. 186 ~ November, 2012