She made a show of liberating her breasts
every time we went to the field.
Some pimple-faced private
would retrieve her bra
for display in the berthing tent.
Marines quietly jerked off in their sleeping bags
to visions of her bouncing like a go-go dancer
beneath regulation camouflage.
At the club, she wore combat boots,
vinyl leggings,
and tube tops that thrust her front-and-center
of every conversation.
Guys took shots from between her thighs
while you imagined her naked and sweaty
pouring tequila over lickerish nipples.
Half the platoon claimed to have slept with her,
which you suspected was half-true.
And when she approached in the Company office,
slid her manicured nails into your crotch
and declared,
"Tonight,"
all you could muster was a timid,
"No, thanks."
Not because you didn't want her.
Something in you refused
to be owned
or compromised
except on your terms.
Se recoiled.
Desire hardened into anger.
By morning, she filed a grievance
with the Master Sergeant
accusing
you
of sexually assaulting
her
Master Sergeant believed you.
Lindsay was reassigned.
And you limped away
looking over your shoulder.
The Second Marine Division
was weeks from deploying to war.
You learned
that a man's throat can be slit,
his round edges carved straight,
without a shot fired.
