In front of the square mirror Callaway leans
above the porcelain sink and reaches his right arm
over his left shoulder, popping pimples near his spine
like he’s searching for a button, his joint tight
like a towrope tugging a Humvee. He is going
for one of those mountains of the body that’s been
growing in the sweat and skin beneath his DCU
blouse, his Kevlar vest of armor: a small wall pushing,
all day, at his back, his ribs, his chest—this armor
around his torso like the closed hand of a god
grasping a body he’ll have to crush, squeeze,
blow to pieces if he wants Callaway all over
a ruthless city street somewhere east of Baqubah
where an IED ’s black smoke will blind the sun.
