Goshen, Virginia

I was still a wolf. My friends were bears.

I wasn’t allowed to iron my patches on

so the shirt could be resold; safety pins

stabbed my chest. From a dry bar of soap,

I whittled a pony. I shot a thousand arrows

into one sour bale. We hunted one another

with pocketknives, got splinters just to dig

them out. Fathers drank martinis. Sons made

spears and fed small fires. How should I

have known what they were cultivating,

stepwise and patient and slow, was me?

I executed orders, pledged allegiance, swore

oaths. I prepared. I made the only promises

I have ever kept. Taps played at five each night.

I was sentenced to latrine duty; reading, I took

too long to kill the light. The ceiling moved

where recluses clustered on the canvas, sipping

our breath as we slept. Just three cold showers

drained my travel-size shampoo, so I scurried

naked through the evergreens. My pony

lost its shape entirely, leached into the creek.