Rebecca Temerario

No Picnic

We crossed the farmland

in a daze, the other congressmen and I. We settled down

under a cluster of trees

in the ghost town farmland,

spreading out our blankets and emptying the contents

of our picnic baskets, waiting for our fairytale

Union victory. Rumor had it

That the Yanks could fight better than Britain’s

finest army led by the King himself. But then the Rebs exploded

from the train. I saw their mouths

open but the scream

was my own. The dream’s blood

rolled over into a nightmare. Chasing the spectators

away from their sickening sport, the Confederates

ate their lunch of human flesh.

Our perfect scenario gobbled up by animals,

the dead men walking

left their blood

bubbling on the blankets. Their meals half-eaten,

they discovered they didn’t have the stomach for battle.

Because war is no picnic.