THE TAKEN

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I stand in the post-winter cemetery of my imagination
the ground as frozen as the
full metal jacket sky
watching
the Field of The Taken
who were
planted in the precision of unpicked cotton
consecrated with monuments etched with
crosses and stars
as thousands of
tiny flags
flap in the wind
like they’re in the fists
of toddlers greeting a 20th-century parade.

When the trumpet sounds
As it does each night
escorted on the arm of midnight
The Taken  
who lost their lives
in the battle of
The U.S.S. Pandemic
Will rise from their sleep
still dressed in the life jackets of masks and gowns
and in the eerie tranquility of a just unplugged machine
they will walk solemnly
in single file
towards the boats
bound for glory
as the captain reads
their names from the manifest:
Mom and Dad
Son and Daughter
Grandpa and Grandma
Sister and brother
Uncle and Aunt
Niece and nephew
The names that we give to the adored who are
Impossible to forget

Once safely aboard
fortified by cups of hot cocoa
and blankets of dreams
they will begin their final ascent

Catapulted by billowing sails
And using constellations as their guide
like ancient mariners
they will suddenly stand tall
doff their caps
drape them over their hearts
and take in the air
which they can once again savor
and in the ceremony of the final request
they will belt out a rollicking sea shanty
about faith
and hope
and love
and most of all
the survival of the near-empty heart.





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