At dinnertime the first volleys are fired
above your fork, knife, spoon, chocolate-smeared plate.
Soon you're too sugar-high to concentrate
on homework and can hardly sleep, trip-wired
to the war on TV. Although you're tired
next day in history class, it's far too late
for an exemption: conscientious hate
soars through your veins. You are already mired
in body-image napalm that ignites
on contact with libido. At fourteen
you see it all, then close your eyes and march
into the swamps, jungles, and firefights
that bind you to the television screen
heart first, mind next, whatever war can parch.