Last Looks

I’m sitting with my back against a building

by the runway, kicking at my kit, anti-social as hell.

The sun is burning circles into my legs. I’m waiting

to get on the plane. I’m out of here for good.

I watch a newswoman on the tarmac

talk to troops about going home, their faces smiling,

heads nodding. I look away, sad

that I can’t quite get there.

Still dwelling on suicide bombers and perfect paper sky,

this fight, both winnable and un-won,

the silence of mountains in the distance

plummeting, indivisible.

This morning the plane sits ready out on the runway,

its shadow rippling in the heat, its ramp folded down.

We head off towards it in single file.

My lungs go in and out like a last look.

I try to breathe it all in – all these hard things –

this detached ache like a paper kite on a cut string.

I can’t figure out what it is I’ve lost.