The Battle of Nashville

Snow gives the sky a new dimension—depth, a soft glow, as if the air lit the yard, which slopes to the city, which shimmers. The river is always moving, but the atrium on Fifth, the Kress, where blacks locked arms and would not budge. A plow takes the hill, where cars line up in rows, and half-built lofts replace the houses. The man who built our house built diesel engines, and kept the trucks he couldn't fix. His daughters sold it all, except the how-to books, the shop fan he left in the attic. We're not brave, but we find one another in bed each night, your hand or my hand reaching out. In the morning, you take the trash, and I make the coffee. Nearby, battles were fought, and men, whose wives waited for them, died. If soldiers held the highest ground, one stood here. If there is one, there is at least one more. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they share a blanket, as snow settles in the trees. I think they are afraid. I think this is love.