I didn't know you'd left grad school,
joined up, didn't know your first name

was really Donald. Came under
heavy fire in Ubaydi. I read fire
& think absurdly of a red blanket,
as if the insurgents tucked you in,

& though I know you have died,
how you must be hating the desert.
When your dorm room had no A/C,
you declared Rogers 100 was Hotter

than two rats fucking in a wool sock.
How many years? Five? Seven?
I was nothing to you, the girlfriend
of a friend. Already the you I picture

smudges, stenciled over by the Marine
you became: hair clipped at the temples,
a ROTC t-shirt you probably never wore.
You are quoted, months ago, as saying

Dad, if I die, I did it doing my duty
and protecting my country. History
is a hand folding over you,
a magician stealing the coin.