saying less, for now, about the steady hand holding the pen 
of proclamation and presidential address, saying more 

of the one wrapped around the axe handle, 
that brought the head down straight and split the rails 

that built the fence which became the border 
that separated the “civilized” from those they labeled savage 

and created farmland from their land, that Abe labored on 
for no payment except for his father’s admonishment

while living on the frontier of difficult feelings, eyes forever full
of mood and storm. Say more of the man of lithe stature who was 

too small in status to perjure himself before the public, of the candidate 
who was common enough to be a trustworthy steward over

the common interest as far as working men saw it. Say more 
of the sense of duty and command he had, of his executive competence 

and sense of determination. See, I can indulge a good myth 
made of a mortal man up until the point it makes myth of me as well: 

when my thanks are invited implicitly in every retelling of his story 
for a piece of paper that cut around electoral edges, that freed 

my forebears as battle tactic to spare a fiction grand enough 
for people to keep dying for in perpetuity. He would save the Union 

without freeing any slave if he could, the president wrote 
to Horace Greeley with hallmark honesty: without any slaves  

it wouldn’t have been possible to save it and without any slaves 
it wouldn’t have needed saving, the war between states and their stated 

ideals made moot, so say more of the price paid to refortify the foundation 
of a house that is burning now because it didn’t fall back then. Say more 

on prudence when insistence is the only righteous option. Say more 
about what happens when common men have a measure of control 

in their leathered hands: ink and parchment, blade and hilt.