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Northfield, Minnesota. 1876.
The three sit stiffly like penitent schoolboys.
Facing the photographer, they accept their fates,
and if possible, would petition only for shirts
to cover their wounds, or help fend off the cold.
Chadwell sheepishly keeps hands crossed on his lap,
balled into fists as if dumbly gripping the air,
or perhaps, in his shame, still fingering the gun.
Chin raised slightly, he concentrates on the wall,
and will not be deterred, no matter how many stare.
Miller remains the most intractable, weakening
minute by minute, but still struggling with pride.
Encouraging him, the photographer lowers his head,
crosses his bony hands, and nearly closes his eyes.
At the next look, Miller's had a change of heart,
still playing the tough guy but convincing no one,
eyes bloodshot and swollen and already welling up.
Pitts' smartly combed hair, mustache, and beard,
his resolute jaw, the chiseled bones of his face,
seem to indicate quality, a distinct gentleman
incapable of the wrongs for which he was expelled.
Head inclined forward, glazed eyes staring ahead.
On impulse, the photographer downturns his mouth,
providing enough remorse even for the Methodists,
and before anyone backslides, snaps the picture.
Copyright ©2003 Thomas D. Reynolds. All rights reserved.
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