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,
but for the over-riding impulse you discovered
in that moment
to resist
being owned
or compromised
except on your terms.
And when she filed grievance with the Master Sergeant
accusing
you
of sexually assaulting
her
you learned that some women will slit a man's throat
and carve his round edges straight
in order to sculpt an image hardened
by the terrible parade of embittered step-mothers,
predatory uncles, and beguiling boyfriends
who taught her the only power
a woman wields in this world
is with her body.
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