American Murder Song - June

Sixth of June, 1816
I must confess that I have not written often of late.
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 is 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
but I sent him off.
(Go way, go way from my window)
This matter was settled when that damn treaty was signed
(Go way, go way from my door)
I don't understand why I am 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
Third time in a day.
(Go way, go way from my window)
I don't understand his ignorance.
(Go way, go way from my door)
I should lie in bed and ignore the knocking.
I should make him hope,
that will suit him.
(One year, three months, twenty- four days)
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?"
I gave them nothing.
(Go way, go way from my door)
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
(No, God don't live here no more)
I so wished to reach for my rifle,
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 judgement.
I too, have a rifle.
No, Reverend, I will not beg nor be humbled
before a God who would make of me an American
yet hate me so freely for it.
(Go way, go way from my window)
Is he not a father who does not love his kin?
(Go way, go way from my door)
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 at 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