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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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