Dear MIA─
are you all-together there
in the middle meadow?
or do your legs bob down-
stream on a turbulent current?
ball blown by cannon's snort
resounding echo at gathering
triangle's bar calls to family arms
embracing memories of the missing

the dog tags wine on distant shores
scratching in the mud of our before-father
mothers in their labor fear, and loath
each forgetful life added to the toll
fenced in by limp flags near stone mounds
buried with ritual lies of nationalist hounds
each border marking a resting place
for an unknown billeted body, not there

-cec