Updated: Dec 2, 2020
On a clear day in Nashville the grass of a civil war field hums with blood
It holds in its grasp the fingers of soldiers watching the sky for the last time
We put their bodies together with ours as we walk through the edges of a memorial
We invoke the homespun god of measurement to help build a house in this field
How deep is a bullet's wound?
Is it one inch? Two? Is it three?
Or should we start farther back?
Is the wound 500 miles?
Is it the distance between the front line of skin and the farthest stronghold?
Or farther still?
Does it go as far back as the whole country?
Is the wound as deep as the entire heart?
Some of us answer the grass with our backs as we weigh the merits of clouds and assess the blue of the sky
A blue that is a battleground between what we see and the rest of everything