Open Letter To Meriwether Lewis

Once I saw an historian

weep for your death

on public television.

About the night you stayed

at Grinder's Stand

on your way to report to Jefferson

of your failing Governorship.

And you were heard to say

as you mounted the stairs to bed,

"In the morning Clark is coming,

Clark is coming,"

but he was miles away.

It wasn't your first time shot.

You caught a bullet in the buttocks

during the return trip of the expedition,

thought it was Blackfoot revenge

for a brave you killed in self-defense

on the westward journey,

but it was a hunter

from your own Corps of Discovery

whom discovered you weren't an elk

reclining in the long grass.

Jefferson and Clark were convinced

the weight of your thoughts finally crushed you,

but what of the murder theorists?

Shot in the head, shot in the heart.

Two guns, sure, but can the brain remember

to shoot the heart

with a bullet already in it?

Phinneas Gage survived a railroad spike

driven through his cranium by an explosion,

so maybe.

Did you hold your breath

and count to three?

Who else would want you dead but you?