Flights In

Weightless shake of plane keeps me awake.

In the semi-dark I hear the sound of soldiers sleeping,

involuntary legs afraid to be still,

heads lolling, the smack of chins falling

forward onto flak vests heavy as lead.

I keep my rifle tucked between my knees.

Farther down the row in the belly of the plane,

a couple of sergeants are reading with their helmet lamps on,

reminding me of home, of flashlights under the sheets

and my daughter, laughing

as she lit her face from beneath.

We made forts under the stairs.

At the airport she wouldn’t let me go.

Eventually I had to hand her over, broken-

hearted, her limbs as limp as her damp hair.

How unfair

that I should think of this now,

desert-bound among the cargo netting and men,

our plane droning on, our wingtips flashing in the black

somewhere above the Gulf of Oman.