Shall I tell you about Antietam?
We faced down Hood’s division
along Mansfield in Sharpsburg
not far from Hagerstown Pike.
I draw a cartridge from my belt,
rip the larded paper with my teeth—
saltpeter and sulfur on my lips—
pour the powder down the barrel,
flip the cartridge, jam the bullet,
ram the load with a metal rod,
take percussion cap from pouch,
and secure it upon the cone.
Up to three times every minute
I will load and fire my Enfield,
each time tasting salt and lard,
that touch of sulfur on my lips.
Yet even for these thirteen hours
I am given only forty cartridges
in the pouch upon my belt:
the killing is carried by artillery.
Today the taste of war
remains upon my tongue:
lard, saltpeter, and sulfur—
lard, salt, and sulfur.
Three times every minute.
You come to crave the flavors.
Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs,
your morning bite of battle.