He came down to the battlefields after the killing was over,
saw the bodies scattered around like blue and grey leaves
in autumn. But his photographs were black-and-white
and the color of uniforms didn’t matter to him. And he
arranged the bodies like flowers. Like paintings on a wall.
Like a dinner table.
Peas next to the mashed potatoes and the applesauce;
this one with the hole in his stomach next to the fellow
with no legs.
“I had to go. A spirit in my feet said 'Go,' and I went.”
When his finger kissed that shutter button they were frozen
on the table, carefully splayed. They were consumed, later,
by the people in the galleries who stood shocked as they stared
at the truth—his truth—of Bull Run, of Antietam.
He had not cooked the meal, but he dished it out
as best he could. And the people ate until they were full;
then the killing was finally over.
