Military Mind

I wanted to go to military school

and march, I wanted to grow up

and be composed and expert

with a rifle, with tactics and fighting,

to be safe and courageous among men

in barracks and on the battlefield.

I wanted to see my arms hairy and

corded with muscle at the end of rolled up khaki sleeves.

I wanted to flex my feet in boots and

look down at the the dust of battles

dimming the leather surfaces, the blood slick

on the rim of the soles. I wanted

the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils, the grime

on my face, the washed-out hollow

love for my comrades found in the foxholes,

the sad understanding, the requiems

of late afternoons walking away from the burial site

with the widow as she cradled the triangulated flag

like a plowblade in her arms.