Private Lindsay

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.

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.

You limped away

looking over your shoulder.

The Second Marine Division

was weeks from deploying to war.

You already learned

that a man's throat can be slit,

his round edges carved straight,

without a shot fired.