Our first instinct to probe their bodies,
schedule various -scopies and exams 
to see if the “me” of ourselves matched 
the “me” of their flesh. 

They politely declined, of course, 
dropping their eyes in quiet shame
for us. Outside, Marine brigades 
and helicopters pranced like 

Cortez’s cavalry before the Aztecs.
The field notes read “non-compliant,”
“refused,” “denied.” The field notes
scrawled in shaky red ink. 

But when they touched us lightly
on the tops of our hands, the way
our mothers once did—a comfort
that blanketed us even as we asked

them again and again to disrobe,
to say “ah”—we knew then exactly 
how they admired our bodies 
in their own private way—how 

they treated us like a cavern,
beautiful because it has never been 
entered, draped in cold, breathing rock 
and a lake so still it is its own mirror.