Printed
on my blanket, soldiers
marched
up and down
wearing
helmets and camouflage, rifles on shoulders.
I’d
hear the beat of their buttstock
as
their weapons marked the spot.
I
didn’t live in a wasteland
but
a minefield.
He
was going to show me
who
was boss,
train
me with his kind knife.
When
I cried out
from
my bed I’d hear: Be a man.
Oh
father, next time you storm in
eager
to dog and train me,
make my army come alive.
make my army come alive.