Janet Hagelgans
How Mike Weston Died
I don’t know how we got to talking about it,
Afghanistan, on a Thursday night.
The helicopter crash his old captain
was in. Lying on the covers with the laundry
scattered around us. He’d only mentioned him
once before, over beef with broccoli.
The one who didn’t want anybody knowing
he’d gotten a law degree from Harvard.
He’d go out to get shot at with
everyone else, like he thought he wasn’t
anything special. Deployed three times,
joined the DEA, volunteered
to go back, even after he got married,
the guy wouldn’t quit, got killed that October
by some mechanical failure after living through
months of gunfights at Ramadi, how
dumb is that? My friend asked me.
Picking out the beef and leaving the vegetables.
The cold air kept blowing my napkin
on the floor and each time I’d take a new one
from an empty table. I don’t even know
how many I wasted. There wasn’t much sense to
any of it. Now he tells me how the chopper
went down on the side of a mountain in the middle
of nowhere. Lying beside me with his shoes
and jacket on. Staring at the ceiling
when he tells me about how Mike
was cut in half by the rotor blade.
There’s nothing to do while he cries but touch
the tough old jacket he’s had
forever. The worn brown leather is warmer
than it looks. Almost like a living thing.
Janet Hagelgans holds a degree in Criminal Justice from the University of Maryland. Her poetry has appeared in the Potomac Review, Common Ground Review and DMQ Review.
Return to May 2015 Edition
I don’t know how we got to talking about it,
Afghanistan, on a Thursday night.
The helicopter crash his old captain
was in. Lying on the covers with the laundry
scattered around us. He’d only mentioned him
once before, over beef with broccoli.
The one who didn’t want anybody knowing
he’d gotten a law degree from Harvard.
He’d go out to get shot at with
everyone else, like he thought he wasn’t
anything special. Deployed three times,
joined the DEA, volunteered
to go back, even after he got married,
the guy wouldn’t quit, got killed that October
by some mechanical failure after living through
months of gunfights at Ramadi, how
dumb is that? My friend asked me.
Picking out the beef and leaving the vegetables.
The cold air kept blowing my napkin
on the floor and each time I’d take a new one
from an empty table. I don’t even know
how many I wasted. There wasn’t much sense to
any of it. Now he tells me how the chopper
went down on the side of a mountain in the middle
of nowhere. Lying beside me with his shoes
and jacket on. Staring at the ceiling
when he tells me about how Mike
was cut in half by the rotor blade.
There’s nothing to do while he cries but touch
the tough old jacket he’s had
forever. The worn brown leather is warmer
than it looks. Almost like a living thing.
Janet Hagelgans holds a degree in Criminal Justice from the University of Maryland. Her poetry has appeared in the Potomac Review, Common Ground Review and DMQ Review.
Return to May 2015 Edition