The Steal

I am on leave.
Anvils melted down are
for the military and she
asks not for any promise;
this was turning and all else
was nearing the end of war.
The fusion of elements
the sexless coils of my loins
the buck of my boots -
she is my time dancer
her second flesh
rises to all men
her flesh of man rises to me
her eyes of mine
rise to a militia of stars -
my metal and my sounds
my soldier's brag,
I was the toxin
assiduously painted
on the rim
of her family bonnet.

That was a point
untimed, untensed,
a wet and white point
in the plasma of my memory.

I was never a soldier
and I will never have a lover.