The Taken: I

east los angeles 2025

“Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left.”
    —Matthew 24:40

The sun is high above,
looking down.

I put the wedding invitation
in my pocket.

Now I am walking
toward the weatherworn
white gazebo
where the mariachis play.

The plaza has become overgrown,
all the trash cans
beyond full.

Beyond full
is how the bride’s
father feels—
laughing with the priest,
dreaming of three, four,

five grandchildren.

The priest
smiles and says,
“More.”

The band now sings El Sol La Negra,
as the groom, wanting a dance,
looks all over for his bride—

Her brother, too, is looking,
but not for her.

He is looking
for the taco vendor,
his cart all alone,
abandoned and sad.

The band plays on,
even though they are missing
Facundo and Mateo—
and no one knows
where they went.

The little ones
play hide-and-seek
with their cousin Lupita,

who hides
too,
too
well.

The Son is high above,
looking down.

And the band plays
on, the silver of their
suits sending off flares

so that the taken
can find their way
home.

I go up to the priest,
ask him, “Father,
is this… is this the Rapture?”

He puts his hand
on my shoulder—

“No, hijo,
this, this

is America.”