Only here will my head clear, among oak
and elm, the green air punctured by boys’ voices
cracking. When I first joined the Jung-Wandervogel,
Josef drew me from my tent to lie hushed
beneath the wings of owls. We’d listen for hours
to their duets, our bodies curling into each other.
If the scout master caught us sneaking about
he’d feign innocence, or wink and crack a joke.
I’m sure he’d done the same when he was young,
but no one’s heard from him for months now.
The S.S. man who took his place
blathers on about blood and honor.
He pins gold and silver sporting medals
on the chests of older boys. Beneath his gaze
they shine like polished blades. He only ever
said it once. He caught a pair of boys, bedraggled,
blushing, sneaking back into their tents.
Degenerates. All morning, the word curdled
in our mouths. We learned to take more care,
to live with less of one another’s touch,
to look elsewhere for privacy. But the bars
are drying up. The parks are full of older men
whose air of desperation mixes too easily
with ours. When we hike, he lets us wander less
and talks of ever-present dangers, as if
to draw us back together, back to him,
united against the Jews. That’s all well and good
for German boys like us. But I distrust
his talk about the Wehrmacht, which he calls
a brotherhood much like the one we share,
we hiking birds with our clipped wings. I know
whatever brotherhood we shared is broken.
I come here only for Josef, the last of us
with eyes for any bird beside the eagle
whose head forms the pommel of our daggers.