This Civil War Battlefield is Not a Water Park



My next entry will be about a road trip I took to Wisconsin last summer with my Dad, son, and niece. Let this poem serve as a prelude to that entry. It explains a lot about my Dad and my sadomasochistic desire to take another trip with him.

This Civil War Battlefield is Not a Water Park

This battlefield is not a waterpark
It is not fun for the whole family

The only thing that ever flowed
here was blood
and sweat
my sweat
my brother’s sweat
that cascades from under
our White Sox caps
like over filled buckets

My Mom and sister stayed in the car
blasting the A/C and New Kids
on the Block cassettes
and I hate them for it

Not enough to shoot them
because of conflicting
views of slavery but enough
to dunk each of them
in a wave pool
in a water park
where we definitely are not at

There is no joy
no relief from Virginia weather
at one in the afternoon
in July

We walk through “Bloody Lane”
a great name for a country road
where thousands of soldiers
drowned under a wave of
artillery fire but a poor
name for a water slide
which I am not on

My Dad is not a life guard
My Dad is not a tour guide

He is a drifter
He floats through this field
as if he is wearing a life jacket

We are rocks in his pockets
keeping him down

We cut him free

Find our way back to the car
Whip doors open to feel
the splash of air conditioning
drenched only in sweat

Finding use for these towels

after all

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