This conscript holds the back of a terrace chair,
standing trouserless and cold, in a damp
examination room at Mercy Hospital.
The intern grips a foot and probes for lumps
or lesions, as if there was a thorn inside,
twisting the knee from its socket joint.
He's fully dressed in uniform for flight,
and cannot see the beauty of this body,
or else he does and does not care,
to send another one off to die. But
the subject of my study is the derriere,
a tight round fist of aubergine,
the hips throned out and restless,
the flesh more supple and pink.
You'd think they'd let him off,
just for this, a prize in any battle
for the sacrament of love. But
the doctor merely scrapes a fingernail
across the ankle and the arch,
finds nothing to prevent the boy
from going, to fly his Kamikaze to the sea.

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