Serving Officers
At the hill’s tip, two boys sat by a portacabin.
Dark terror cylinders, like a psychopath’s pupil,
Dense with the intensity of a latent propulsive force,
Swung easily as corpses over their shoulders,
Threatening, yet totally indifferent to you —
You,
standing in those market-bought Mary Janes;
Your bitter washing-powder scent on the ragged wind.
Sharp wind on bare legs, puckered like raw chicken skin.
Maybe the night before we’d danced in pubs —
This same boy
Who slams the rifle’s wooden heel
On the fleshy heel of his hand.
You’d felt his fingers, or his friend’s fingers,
At your waist’s skin.
Now, he shoves the rifle behind him;
Inspects your picture on the plastic card with a dull glance,
Nods to his mate in the portacabin, and the iron gate
swings
open.
Chicken legs exposed, you serve soup to his commanding officer,
Serve this war the way you serve the next one
And the one after that: pulling your skirt down over your knees,
Polishing silverware in the dull lamp-light,
Bending low with the ceremonial offerings of your people,
Port and Madeira, blood-thick.
What is spilled by the officers, you wipe with a damp cloth.
Katie Beswick is a writer from south east London. She teaches at Goldsmiths College. She publishes across forms: prose fiction, poetry, scholarship, journalism and life writing. Recent and forthcoming poetry publications in: Euonia Review, Poetry Cove, Harpy Hybrid, English and Fiona Benson’s collection Insect Love Songs.
