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