But, of course, the poppy fields died.
We were always praying to straw grasses.
Lime trees. A river in slow motion.
Sound takes years to get here, so
these words will reach the future
mother I might be. Death is like a perfect
strand of pearls, pulled from a throat.
Like a child, shiny & blue. This, after
years of condoms, the Pill, a wedding.
An IUD they guaranteed me was safe.
But what guarantee of safety is there
in anything, let alone the life span
of a cluster of cells? Now they’re asking:
Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you—?
[ insert pain here ] The white mountain
grows in the window, a consequence
of winter & time. It’s impossible to say
how long the poppies grew wild around us,
but I remember them here. Their crimson
bodies, brilliant & brimming with sun.