| And when I do, it is a clemency I give myself
|
| For the inkwell continues to freeze
|
| This has surely been as cold a weather as any man has known
|
| The calendar is false. |
| I say, is this not summer?
|
| The east hills that overlook my property
|
| They have all been killed by frost
|
| The less fit plants and vegetation
|
| Beg for mercy where there is none
|
| I have none. |
| I want none
|
| Worse still, an almost perpetual rain
|
| Confines me principally to pace the house
|
| Where I have taken to wearing socks and coats
|
| And gloves too big for my fingers
|
| A steady fire has been required at all hours
|
| Though the ice in the wood has made it difficult to chop
|
| And heavy to carry, troublesome to drag
|
| Copious showers have been attended
|
| With lightening and thunder
|
| And the road has been barren of souls for weeks
|
| Save for a post delivery last Tuesday
|
| Is this what we fought for?
|
| I would have welcomed the company
|
| Of course, but it was a parcel for Silas
|
| The rider asked to come inside
|
| To be spared from the crippling frost
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my window)
|
| But I set him off
|
| This matter was settled when that damned treaty was signed
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my door)
|
| I don’t understand why I’m being punished
|
| (One year, three months, eighteen days.)
|
| I hope the animals take him
|
| (No, God don’t live here no more.)
|
| Eleventh of June, 1816
|
| There has never been so poor a harvest
|
| As this season, as now
|
| New England has become a festering graveyard
|
| It was better when the king ruled us
|
| Not this uneven wind
|
| Beans are froze
|
| Cucumbers, roots, they are froze
|
| The well is froze
|
| The body is froze
|
| Outside, less determined, disgraceful men
|
| And wives and daughters stampede
|
| Like slow, dying bulls, mewling, heading West
|
| Aren’t we so full of Christian grace?
|
| A persistent fog has reddened and dimmed the daylight
|
| It is as if the sun itself has become pocked
|
| And blackened with sores
|
| I am so very tired
|
| General Jacobs came to the house again
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my window.)
|
| Third time in a day
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my door.)
|
| I don’t understand his ignorance
|
| I should lie in bed and ignore the knocking
|
| (One year, three months, twenty-four days.)
|
| I should make him hope
|
| That will suit him
|
| Hope is for the weak
|
| (No, God don’t live here no more.)
|
| Thirteenth of June, 1816
|
| As I write this
|
| I am convinced that the sun has taken ill to defy me
|
| More convinced than I’ve ever been of anything
|
| Nature is rot
|
| Or are my superior wits deceived
|
| By a fiction gnawing in my belly?
|
| Father would say so
|
| Now, I have taken to eating loathsome foods:
|
| Boiled grass and udders, if I can find them
|
| Men came from town yesterday
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my window.)
|
| «Where is your brother?
|
| Where is your brother, Silas?»
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my door.)
|
| I gave them nothing
|
| We stood on the porch for an hour’s time
|
| A senseless eternity
|
| (One year, three months, twenty-six days.)
|
| Across the field, a sickly creature limped about
|
| I so wished to reach for my rifle
|
| (No, God don’t live here no more.)
|
| Make quick work and eat again
|
| Eighteenth of June, 1816
|
| Today, Reverend Brown came
|
| I wished to kill him to establish peace
|
| His blood would be my own treaty
|
| A dead bird was frozen in his hand
|
| I bet it was God’s judgment
|
| I, too, have a rifle
|
| No, Reverend, I will not beg, nor be humbled
|
| Before a God who will make of me an American
|
| (Go 'way, go way from my window.)
|
| Yet hate me so freely for it
|
| (Go 'way, go 'way from my door.)
|
| Is he not a Father who does not love his kin?
|
| Don’t we all have our pacts to make?
|
| (One year, three months, thirty-one days.)
|
| Soak them in blood and honor them
|
| I will not be punished by men
|
| (No, God don’t live here no more.)
|
| Twentieth of June, 1816
|
| So, I fear, this is summer
|
| Lands are all but abandoned
|
| Gone like the red sticks
|
| Save for me
|
| What beautiful promise this is, Silas
|
| Silas. |
| Silas. |
| Silas
|
| I will not be punished, Silas
|
| Father, you want your son?
|
| Take my hands then
|
| For I will not wash his blood from them
|
| This land is mine
|
| Should have always been
|
| And if summer survives
|
| And I can find a measure of warmth
|
| I will not bury his body, not my brother
|
| I will let the animals gnaw on his bones
|
| And I will send him to Hell in your Heaven, father
|
| May you both be blessed in blood
|
| You want punishment?
|
| You’ve found it
|
| I wish you death
|
| Your only daughter |