by Zachary Lunn


Salah ad-Din Province, Iraq


When the bird touches down
its rotors cloud the air with dust,
red cross marking its side like a headstone.
The flight medic steps out,
stoops low, starts towards us.
I watch her and remember the names
of every mangled man she’s lifted away.
Strands of brown hair peek under
her flight helmet, small shoulders
push against the seams of her jumpsuit.
I want to say, take me home.
Her shampoo smells like the
pinyon leaves in Texas.


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