by Kevin Boyle

    I put the bookmark in the page after Lincoln's

    silence during the 1860 campaign， after no one

    in the Gulf¹ States cast a single vote for him，

    then march off to the car， carseat in tow， drive on

    cruise， mainly， to the site in Durham where Sherman

    coaxed² the Southern general-Johnston-

    to submit twice， sign twice. The six hundred thousand

    dead were like the shucks inside the reconstructed

    bed， the smoke the chimney slewed³， the clayish mud.

    In the museum， name-tagged women watch our daughter，

    four months here， while we investigate the flags

    with gunshot holes， the uniforms with gunshot holes，

    the shells of the Union Army with three rings， the shells

    of the Confederate's with two. We take our daughter

    to the filmstrip， where she sleeps through

    the stills of uniformed corpses⁴ in ditches and cries

    at war's end， one flag for all these states. We ride，

    strapped⁵， to the Greek restaurant known for its sauces

    and lamb， stroll inside the tobacco warehouse⁶ transformed

    into a mall， each glass pane⁷ so large a truck

    could drive through and pick up brightleaf to ship.

    They say this section profited when South met North

    and troops took in the smoke of this leaf， spreading

    by word of mouth the flavor， until the profits

    were so large owners began to donate. In the antique store

    we happen upon a map my father might love

    of Ireland before division， just as it appeared

    when he was born， the north a section， not another country，

    Ulster's counties awash in the orange the mapmakers

    stained it. But we can't commit to buy for this price，

    or prevent our daughter from falling asleep as we discuss

    facts the map makes clear： battles marked in bold，

    our side losing again and again， the Flight of the Earls，

    Vinegar Hill， the Battle of the Boyne， and we donate

    a moment during the drive home to feel

    the weight of the centuries' dead， almost cry for all

    those men who gave their skin to the ground so young，

    so young brought their lips to earth and let their mouths

    cave in， accept the soil as their voice. We did not wake

    our girl through this. Let her sleep， we said.

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