My mother cried when I was drafted.
The tears wet her cheeks and
wet my apetite to fight
for Diocletian.

Scared and proud I bent and snapped
to the will of the empire.
As I left the Po River Valley
I knew it would never be seen again
by me. I’d been transplanted
to Rome.

The transition was hard, as they all are.
Cut into shape, fit to be in the army;
regrets died, I was whitled away.
They gave me a helmet and a feather.

Fly true and sing; didn’t even see his face,
but I didn’t miss either. I Crashed
right through the third and
fourth rib: man had sprouted twigs
while I ploughed head first
into my first cousin; she
cried.
It hurt.