The Death of Col. McCollum
Two yards from where the body lay,
Bill found his wallet, splayed open
to the photo of a woman standing in snow,
Never miss a local story.
baby in her left arm, her right hand clutching
the fist of a small girl pressed into her waist.
On the back in slanted script,
Waiting here for you. Love forever.
His helmet had rolled off and was lying
in leaves not far from the river bank
they’d crossed earlier that day
as mortar fire shattered around them.
Bill pulled the dog tags, cursing.
What any of them would do now,
he couldn’t say. He cried, blamed himself,
said he should’ve gone too, could’ve at least
hunted down the son of a bitch that got him.
Now he fires at everything that moves—
a rustle in the brush, a rabbit, a bird,
wind stirring. Hours ticking off
till everything he knows is gone.
Barbara Presnell is the author of five collections of poetry, including “Piece Work,” which won the Cleveland State University Poetry Center First Book Prize and was adapted for stage by the Touring Theatre of North Carolina. She has been awarded fellowships from the North Carolina Arts Council, the Kentucky Arts Council, and the Kentucky Foundation for Women. A native of Asheboro, North Carolina, she teaches at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and lives in Lexington, North Carolina, with her husband, Bill Keesler. The poem, “Death of Col. McCollum,” is from her most recent collection, “Blue Star,” from Press 53.