Day 17

Private Edgar Perry

for Edgar Allen Poe

I reported for duty,
a Bostonian, surly, moody,
unsteady.

Twenty and two,
not eighteen,
Yes, twenty and two
and not eighteen-
scratching words on the wall
of the latrine.
for five dollars a month.
Obscene.

Yes, I was only eighteen.
The Artificer of Carolina,
my explosive words
proved themselves less lucratively
than the edifice
of shells and artillery.

And at twenty and seven
not twenty and two
yes, twenty and seven
not twenty and two-
reached highest rank and then was through.
But they would not release me.
From the shells and artillery.
My last chance at worldly victory.

I was only twenty and two.
My name is Poe, not Perry.
I wish to marry.
Home, I wish to tarry,
My hardened heart I will carry.
Again, refused.

Heavy, heavy cry.
Heartache, heartache, sigh.
My half-closing eye.
And to the deep trumpet- the wild
Of human battle.

I would chronicle my voice,
"My own voice.
Like, a silly child!–"