Campfire on the Edge

CAMPFIRE ON THE EDGE

The question is always if—living here 

on the battlefield’s edge—we 

see ghosts.  From experience, they’re not 

asking about passing premonitions 

of presence, doors we know we’d closed 

found open to the night, even an old man 

wandering the woods whose “good evening"

arrives heavy, slow, as if trailing the sludge

of centuries. What they want is a farmer 

with his leg blown off below the knee of his

Confederate gray, (that is, if it weren’t for reenactments

to explain it away.) Let’s shoot straight:

we fear real belief but love the haunting 

of it, the chance to wave a hand through 

its chest to reaffirm that we’re the firm ones 

here. So what I say instead—to duck 

the question and save us all the sticky

mess when the answer doesn't fit

in our mouths like a s’more—is that

we have a bluetick who sits in the middle

of the field and barks at nothing 

more than that there’s a world here 

for howling about. As the fire smolders out, 

someone always eyes the bag 

and asks for a second, because though

we've been raised to politely deny it, none of us 

are ever really content with only one.