Four hours a night
and we slept with our rifles,
strap twined around skinny forearms,
brass and ammo locked away
and catch on safety.
Drill Sergeant Robinson warned
that if he snuck
into our shelter halves
and nabbed a rifle,
why, we’d be pushing
Fort Dix off the map.
We laughed, our voices too high,
our camouflage paint cracking
into frightened, toothy grins.
He held a rifle over his head:
“For the next eight weeks,
this is your boyfriend!”
I thought, “girlfriend.”
