Philpot

By now, I should have learned
that Pepsi for its own sake
isn’t really why
Philpot would steal it back to the barracks—
a sack of America’s second favorite under his ACUs,
risking his skin.

That speaking and doing
are two different things,
and the distance between hurt
and knowledge is never closed.

That he knew.
He wanted to offer it—his skin—
to us, the drill sergeants turning, or side-eyeing
as he was duly ground
in the mortar and pestle
of idle hands.

That it was the need for attention
in the face of contraband discovered,
and a shakedown every thirty minutes throughout the night.

That the gay soldiers upstairs (spared for once
of the slur aimed at Philpot and the fists
for his recklessness) must have been unendingly terrified.

That “faggot”—
a hollow, muttered prayer,
was a ticket home more than an insult.
But maybe he was.
We never found out.

That the drill sergeants’ promise to test
any claim to homosexuality with a skull-fucking
was probably bluster.

That the planet, year on year,
never returns to the same place.

That anniversaries, like memory,
are all in our head.

That all he had was a bag of syrup
and without soda water
it would be undrinkable.

That all of this
was besides the point.

That Philpot
is a name I could not make up,
even if I wanted to—
even if I wished
it were all imagination.