When my adrenaline caught a breath
of sandalwood musk, and a hint of
disinfectant from an anxious party host,
I knew I was entering the war.
Discolored shoes shuffling

over a film of beer
that dirtied the parents'
checkered tiles.
Medallions peeking
through unbuttoned shirts,

dancing and grooving until the
basement lights snapped
their joints awake.
They went to war
over Colombian Gold.

It smelled of strange fruit,
with earthy notes
that lingered throughout
the boys' hair; styled to hide
the nape of their necks.

They talked about the war
through the lines of demarcation
on their chapped lips
and cotton ball mouths.
One boy offered me a pill.