valley forge

i was just a thimble of water carried
in my father's pocket. we come from
a long line of reenactors. put on your
throat story. be the snow soldier
on august's thumb. i loved the cannons most.
how we kneeled & filled them
with grapefruit. in the united states
the biggest enemy is always secretly 
your peach pit dream. the rotting self. 
where the worm lives
& talks about salvation. the weeping soil.
a turned shovel in the wet earth. he knew
there would never be enough to drink.
once, my father saw a ghost. or was it
that he heard one? the boy in the attic 
still marching from one side of a terror
to another. his boots without him.
his head without him. a jar of peaches.
forks stuck in the ground like gravestones.
the army doctors would hold their saws.
they would say, "look at the trees, they
lose limbs & still find their green."
in the end, he will swallow me.
he will say we are in the midst of a war.
of course we are. because what is war
if not an urge against history.  
for now though, we rest. we tell the dead,
"we are here to be you." they say,
"we are here to do the same."