The Missing

The Missing
For the victims of the Grenfell Tower fire disaster
As if their bodies became lighter
Ten of those seated in the front pews of the church began to float
And then to lie as if on a bed
Then pass down the aisle, as if on a conveyor belt of pure air
Slow as a funeral cortege
Past the congregants
Some sinking to their knees in prayer
One woman, rocking back and forth muttered
"What about me Lord, why not me?"

The Risen stream slowly
So slowly out the gothic doors
And up to the sky
Finches darting deftly between them

Ten streets away
A husband tries to hold onto the feet of his floating wife
At times, her force lifts him slightly off the ground, his grip slipping
He falls to his knees with just her high-heeled shoe in his hand
He shields and squints his eyes as she is backlit by the sun

A hundred people start floating from the windows of a tower block
From far enough away they could be black smoke from spreading flames

A father with his child on top of his shoulders
Men in sand-colored [?]
A woman with an Elvis print and vintage glasses
A deep indigo hijab flapping in the wind, all airborne
Amongst the service clouds floating like hair
They begin to look like a separate city
Someone looking on can mistake them for new arrivals to earth
They are the city of the Missing
We now, the city of the the Stayed