Poem - March

Military Dream

Tell me again what was overheard

Through the door they forced open:

Seeing the flesh within

As boot heels scraped down dusty ramparts.

It was an army man, as fake and plastic 

As any spine that bends so

When men flex their fake and plastic hands. 

And there were the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen:

they were crumpled up hastily under the cot—

Each of us unmoored and sweaty 

without knowing why,

Waking from the dream and thinking in your 

Big dog brain

Was it the fucking?

Was it the running, after, once we realized what they said?

Was it the laden air?

I can feel the storm coming.

I can feel the way the clouds got too dark for February.

I can feel it in my joint’s ache,

And see the starlings flying low

Over acre after acre of gold.

And a long way off,

Under a yellow streetlight flickering,

Under a weeping deep blue twilight

My lips tasted of salt and I waited for you.

They said that they’d send the queers out in the first wave

So they could be rid of us.

I just wanted to hold his face and tell him:

“Well, my darling idiot creature, the storm will take us all out soon enough.”

I wanted to tell him that while I pulled his eyes out

Like scraping gum off the sidewalk. 

I’ll settle for waiting.

I would reassure you too if you asked;

Gently cupping your great muzzle

To soften the blow: “…soon enough.”

While the first breeze of rain 

Lifts our sweat to thunder.