Abe Lincoln Writes to Joshua Speed

Abe Lincoln Writes to Joshua Speed
by Jack Peachum

   Dear Joshua: You know that I love you,
   That I have always loved you—only you—
   The woman means nothing to me—nothing!
Henceforth, don’t write angry letters to me!
   Mary always was and always will be
   A splinter between us in our bed:—but—
   I can’t be shut of her in this office!
   Did my connivance top my ambition,
   How quickly I would be a single man!
   What is it that fool Herndon says of me?
   "His ambition is a little engine—
   And knows no rest!" He sees not half of it!
   May God legitimize me in office!
A President must be above the law—
Else how is he to make a government?
Me, for the cunning of the country boy,
   The big, rude, untutored rural bumpkin
   As cozzens the clever city-slicker—
   The husband that outsmarts the nagging wife!
   Anyway, she’s a cow, gross of habit,
   Unpleasant—forever in a foul mood,
   Capable of the meanest behavior,
   A spendthrift who wastes more than I can earn—
    (I sometimes believe she might be insane—
   I’ve considered—but that’s not possible!)
   We no longer sleep together, of course—
   Her headaches—and what a relief to me!
   Oh, she has perjured herself more than once
   In the matter of government monies—
   And persuaded others to do likewise!
   I don’t know how we should make an answer
   If there be any call to inquiry!
   Perhaps—you will pray for me, Joshua—
   Pray my rising career don’t be cut short
   By the machinations of a woman!
   No, of course, there won’t be an inquiry—
   I’ve taken proper steps—the matter’s closed!
   But you ask what brought me to marry her?
   She with her connections and her money—
   When you’re poor as I am, you’re needing both—
(Alas, her fortune long gone, I’m afraid!)
   I say, what other reasons could there be?
One don’t ride to this office by merit—
   The fare will be paid with cash and conscience—
   In that capacity, she serves me well.
   And lest you think I give her too much praise,
   I remind you—she was once a helpmate—
   So, in spite of all, I’ve a debt to her—
   Not only for office, but family,
   A thing I never had nor dared dream of
   In my whole entire melancholy life—
   But here I have suffered such tragedies!
   Alas, that poor Willie should die—my boy,
   My precious little son, a sweet angel,
   And he shut in the earth, food for the worm!
   I glimpse him now and then, in pale moonlight,
   Walking across the lawn of the White House—
   Mary tells me she’s seen him too—at play,
   In the parlor sometimes after sunrise—
   Now, God help us both—for we know he’s dead—
We’ve all seen him lying in his coffin!
   Our seance did nothing to bring him forth—
   How can he be haunting these corridors?
   It breaks my heart—I must not dwell on it!
   Now, I’ll tell you a thing that baffles me—
   Last evening, I looked in a mirror—
   And saw my face, half dead and half-alive—
   One side, my living face stared back at me,
   And on the other side, my naked skull—
   Devoid of skin—gleamed bone-white in the glass!
   I looked again and the vision was gone!

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Jack Peachum is a widely published poet, both on the internet & in print magazines. He lives in The Venable's House on The Venable's Lot, a haunted manse in southside Virginia, with wife Julia, a lovely bulldog named Eleanor, a cat named Scratch, and many many ghosts.

What do you think is the most important part of a historical fiction poem?
Since I write from the inside of a character, I think the most important part of the process is to find the person at that level-- this means locating an individual characteristic, either physical or psychological, through which the one speaking may reveal themselves.