The Horrors of Libby Prison

The Ghost in the Mirror
The James River: February 5, 1865.

Real food now on the City of New York:
Hot coffee dark, with sugar, in a tin cup,
ham thick sliced and wheat bread.
The last Libby Prison meal:
a double cornbread ration
and
molasses in his upturned cap.
The meals for months before:
poor cornbread sliced from a pound loaf
(four per squad of sixteen men),
sometimes bones to make a soup—
that was for the stronger mostly.
Weaker men like him made do
with salt and peppered water
boiled to trick their hunger.
He now stands, clutching what he’s claimed,
in the glittering mirrored salon.
A sudden movement startles him;
it’s a gaunt wretch in filthy rags.
Staring, each awaits the other’s move.
Time stops; then,
studying that skeleton, he slowly understands.
This is no threatening stranger;
it’s his own ghost gazing from the mirror.

Margaret S. Langford 06//25/16

Happy New Year 1865
Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia

No laughter, songs, or merriment
in this grim space.
Below, the stern guards’ cadenced pace.
Here,
on the third floor, silence.

Gaunt men in frayed uniforms
sleep on the hard wood floor
They huddle in pairs, spoon-fashion.
Guards call the hour; they shift.

Stoves, one at each room end,
broadcast some heat by day.
Strong men cook thin bone soup.
The weak stand silently by.

By night, all rest as best they can,
dreaming of warmth and feasts.

On New Year’s Day: a miracle.
The Commission ladies come
with a blanket for each prisoner.
Will that gift prolong their lives?

Trade? Keep? Eat? Stay Warm?
Three clever friends choose well.
One blanket buys a shared wheat loaf.
Two will ease their nights.

Margaret S. Langford