The Day the Poppies Died

It is 6:30 in Connecticut, a Sunday

The day the Poppies wilted, yes

It is 2006 and I go visit my grandfather

Because the clock was running out of time

Refusing dinner and closed up my mid-swallow throat

And only time could pry open my mouth

I ride in busted blue back seats

And rest my head on furrowed thoughts I

Have as streetlights slowly turn my madness

Bright with dim hospital lights

​​​I wait with eyes hazy

As my mother (silhouette of a mother, more likely)

Face blurred by charcoaled nights burnt to ashes in her hands

Treads slowly like dying rivers in an unknown land

And she enters the car like a midnight wind

Knocking down any chance for a calm

Before the storm, she gave me a Poppy

And in her hands she cradled stems

Broken off, soft petals like ripped stained sheets

She cried. He’s dead! She screamed. He’s dead! She cried

For eight solid years the Poppy loomed over her, a reminder

Of the hour drive back home, the smell of wilted gardens

Grew stronger through each passing second of removal

Of feelings, the purgatory of remembering locked away

Her fleeting sanity. The ghoulish screams of realization

Haunted the space, my mouth paralyzed, agape

He’s dead! I screamed. My Poppy! I cried. He’s dead!

I screamed, to conquer the unbearable heaviness

Pushing down on my body, like a shovel to unbroken soil

Digging just to bury unanswered questions I could never ask.