The General’s Briefing

The briefing room smells like a cottage

closed up in the dead of summer

or a second-hand shop in July.

We are sticking to our chairs, Sean and I,

listening to a fan that makes noise, but moves no air.

We have a few minutes to wait.

The General is at a ramp ceremony –

an American this time, and one of Hannah’s friends.

Died in her arms in Pashmul.

She told me this on the boardwalk at KAF,

out front of the Tim Horton’s trailer

and I said that I was sorry for her loss. Us Canadians

were holding steady at twenty-three. I wondered

what number it was for them. A shitty thing

to keep track of, even worse to lose it.

The door to the briefing room opens, closes. A thousand times

I twist the cap on a water bottle warm as a beach.

We go over our notes.

Outside the plane takes off and I start to feel sad.

Then the General brushes in and it’s all business.

He takes his seat, apologizing

for being late.