Skip to content →


red grit on Indian trails ignited
quantrill’s lust for blood, and he scalped
two farmers on the way to Lawrence

he waved those scalps like torches
and lit up the eastern prairie
like it hadn’t been since creation

after the dead were lined up and shot
the cinders cooled and the smoke cleared
he hung that skin and hair on his saddle

and looking into the blood
said a prayer for the mothers of orphans
risen now into the dust

Published in Uncategorized


We all want to hear what you think.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: