Our captain returns,

a little thinner,

a little grayer.

Sometimes a tremor

in his hands,

but we pretend

not to notice.

We are his reminders,

a company of ghosts,

prisoners in kind.

A comrade

shares his haunts,

blood on leather,

a rain of shadows

over desecrated graves,

we didn't know

who or what to look for,

didn't know they

would be our own

Fields blackened

with small bodies

lined up uniformly

side by side, as if

obsessively arranged.

Tonight the turnkey

wears long skirts,

her voice like notes.

The air thickens

with her oily scent,

bright scales glitter,

as she fills our trays

with rancid meat,

& bitter wine.