Helicopter Crash

Crumpled, dusty, whirling into the camp wall,

a helicopter folds, burning like a metal deck of cards,

melting the seatbelts.

No way to get them out, the pilot and door gunner.

Inside the operations centre the order gets given –

start making the calls back home.

The officer in charge swallows hard, nods.

Poised on the last step of the stairs

he feels his own bones on fire,

thinks of his boys, eleven and thirteen, says –

It would be quick though.

It would be quick.

But I can tell from his face –

how he sees those flames

like a tableau, those hands

in a cockpit spasming for air –

that he’s not sure.