the grey and blue

he holds the crimped
thick shell
of a bullet
once shot during
the civil war
in his palm and says
look. he's wide
eyed and happy
with his find. this is
one of ours, he says.
whether it killed
or maimed,
or the stuck
the side of the barn
who's to know.
you hold it in your
hand, feeling
the weight
of the old bullet,
feeling both
metallic
and ceramic at
the same time.
you could see how easily
it could penetrate
the skin
and lodge itself
within the human body
never to be removed.
he brings out a buckle,
a bowl of buttons
from both sides,
then a porcelain broken
dish, white and blue.
a tin of nothing.
we didn't lose every
battle he says,
we won some too.