Fabrication Of Ancestors

A poem by Alan Dugan

For old Billy Dugan, shot in the ass in the Civil War, my father said.

The old wound in my ass

has opened up again, but I

am past the prodigies

of youth’s campaigns, and weep

where I used to laugh

in war’s red humors, half

in love with silly-assed pains

and half not feeling them.

I have to sit up with

an indoor unsittable itch

before I go down late

and weeping to the storm-

cellar on a dirty night

and go to bed with the worms.

So pull the dirt up over me

and make a family joke

for Old Billy Blue Balls,

the oldest private in the world

with two ass-holes and no

place more to go to for a laugh

except the last one. Say:

The North won the Civil War

without much help from me

although I wear a proof

of the war’s obscenity.

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• This Moment, Yearning and Thoughtful. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• This Day, O Soul. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• Think of the Soul. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Thick-Sprinkled Bunting. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• These, I, Singing in Spring. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• There was a Child went Forth. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• The Wound-Dresser by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• That Shadow, my Likeness. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• That Music Always Round Me. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Tests. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Tears. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Still, though the One I Sing. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• States! by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Starting from Paumanok. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Spontaneous Me. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Spirit whose Work is Done. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Spirit That Form’d This Scene. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sparkles from The Wheel. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman

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