I am a soldier in my seven years' war.
Confused in battle or drunk on victory,
I cannot remember how I joined:
dragooned, reprieved from prison
or willingly recruited on a honeyed afternoon.
It all just came upon me.
Then someone lined me up and called me down.
Ever since, I've twisted tendons
just to prove my flesh and bones
are not the mud and stones.
I follow plans for the long haul:
a month's provisions crush my spine
as I stumble into gullies and carry over deadfall.
Through the shading foliage I catch a glimpse
of a sunlit Indian independence. Allies or enemies,
coming or going by their own diplomacy,
they are sirens, even angels whose silent beckoning
makes my backbone ache the more.
And yet I keep my feet to the trail,
habit my only harness, uncertainty the spur.
Some soldiers were told to slash and burn
four thousand homesteads below the town.
I remember the spurts of quick, bright flame from eaves
and the spurts of quick, bright blood from scalps;
but I'm damned if I remember either attacking or defending.
I was simply there.
When did the war begin and when do the seven years' end?
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