AND NOW THE NEWS: TONIGHT THE SOLDIERS

dropped their guns to dance. The sight

of spinning starlit men, their arms

around such waiting waists, alarmed

those paid to blare the urgent words

of war. And how did these hard men

decide on just this time to twirl

in bloodied dust, and how do we

explain the skin to skin, their hips

aligned, dramatic dips—was that

a kiss? Some rumba, others throw

a soundtrack down—they pound deep drums,

they twang imagined strings, they blow

notes blasted blue through sandy winds,

they dream a stout piano’s weight.

They spark the dance—the bop and twist,

the tango, yes, the trot, the stroll,

the slither-slow unmanly grind

within a brother’s brazen arms.

The talking heads can’t spit enough

as cameras catch the swirling men,

their thrown-back heads and bended backs,

the rhythm of their rite, the ways

they steam. The toothy anchors chant

the traitors’ numbers, names, to shame

them into still. But still the music

blows, the soldiers pivot, swing,

unleash their languid limbs, caress.

They don’t slow down to weep or stop

to grieve their new-gone guns. The public

bray begins, the song of killers

killing must resume! but then

the mirthful moon illuminates

the ball, our boys in dip and glide

and woo. We see the dancers’ dangling

eyes and blaring open sores,

shattered shoulders, earlobes smashed,

the halves of heads, the limp, the drag

of not quite legs. The soldiers dropped

their guns, and snagged a nasty bass

to roughride home. You hear the stomp,

the weary wheeze and grunt, the ragged

nudge of notes on air? You see

the whirling soldiers spin, the love

they braved, and oh my god, that kiss?