boys that have yet to shave and girls
who still blush at the sight of boys
are shown giant semi-circles made of black rubber,
taught to call them targets, and put bullets through
them, center-mass to "eliminate the obstacle",

the children grow a soldier's thirst
to see targets tear open holes
with exit wounds the size of hearts, begin
to enjoy the jerk of a gun-butts to collarbones,

targets are then upgraded to mirror silhouettes
resembling siblings or grandparents, begin to move
side to side and change distances, as if running,

center mass becomes breastbone,
but no one in Kuwait said "human",
just "lock, load, and watch your lane",

but here, you
don't feel warm splashes of sulfur snaking
nostrils, confusion in your shoulders,

just hold your breath and never pull,
but squeeze the trigger, soft as stroking
a baby's brow,

they promise by the time you get to combat,
you will shatter the spine of a target
at three-hundred meters

without blinking.