Academy of American Poets Prize, 2017

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.

 

 

 

This poem previously appeared in the June 2017 issue of Pedestal Magazine.