Old Friends

Alison and I stood, hands shaking

chain-link fence, white corrosion

scraping our skin. Our screams

and those of our sisters, fell

on confused ears of young GIs

whose embarrassment highlighted 

the dull of their uniforms.

Their training hadn’t covered this.

We meet in the gym, hands moving

the bars of the cross-trainer,

know that we are still not dead

and somehow can’t imagine

our girls shaking fences

living in benders 

instead of on them,

instructing bewildered youth

the fuck off home.