Photo by dbking via flickr
Ours by not being ours.
Saturday mornings with the guys
he’d tell bed-sheet war stories.
I’d ask something like how’d she taste anyway
and we’d crack all into fits
like brunch comrades or brothers.
Picking her up, he’d take me — all pithy chest
and split knees — and she’d wonder
who’s side I was on, I’m sure. I’d tell racist jokes and he’d snort
hard at me with his eyes
on her like something wild.
Later crowded in a drunken doorway: he’d find
the crook of my belly hiding
under my breasts and slip his fingers over the trigger
like he’d known all along
that I too was an enemy.
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