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Gettysburg
by Ed Bennett
My daughter played
by a silent canon.
My son read the gravestones
looking for familiar names.
The guide pointed
to generals on heroic mounts
who charged or fell
or ran headlong
into grapeshot
with a fool’s heroism.
In this corner of death,
rarely visited,
is the statue
without horse or sword,
just a soutane and bible:
Father Corby
who prayed in this hell
for the repose of all souls,
his small treason
for the greater glory.
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