He wrote his wife 
from battle's field 
how he cleaved through
the solider's head, 
and how now, he said, 
I see his eyes peer hard 
from night's sleep. 

All about me men 
were killing, hacking 
each on each, 
as if Hell had emptied 
all upon the field, 
none giving quarter; 
none until death comes 
will yield. 

He added fond wishes 
and kisses at the bottom, 
his scribbled hand 
was hard to read 
midst fingerprints 
blood marked,
where one had bled. 

She had his letter 
and his words, 
but he was dead.