Soldiers squat by the gutters, looking
for their teeth. The one with the burning

red mustache shouts to me, "Boy! Boy!
Where did you get those clothes?"

I notice that, since this morning, my pants
have grown six pockets. When I don't answer,

when I simply run my hands over my legs
as if feeling for this country's lost contact

lens, he returns his fingers to the curbs.
He coughs a lock of hair from behind

his ear and I see, attached to his neck
like a cyst, the blue-green jugular

tattoo of the State of Israel, drawn through
with dotted lines. I am reminded of those

cartoonish slaughterhouse diagrams
of the bisected cows, pigs, lambs

of Mason City, as they gave themselves
to my father's huge need of purpose

and paycheck, and my own need for food.
Soon, I don't feel like a boy at all.

The soldier wipes his forehead, tucks
his hair into place. I see a collection

of gold teeth spilling from his hands
like corn, and, as if to match the sheen

of his palms, I pull a cloud of ammunition
from my left ankle's pocket and stare down

the sky, praying for a gun.