poppies
It was inthe red poppythat took me downthat lane againwhen I’m standing near a corner gardenand the light turnswalk Walk!the window screams bybut I’m stuck in your bloodfrom the wayI can’t even cross the streetwithout thinking about deathand feeling the crossboughbetween my browsbending to my hand red in the palmfrom the poppy I pickedbut how He didn’tdeserve to bleedand how I do andso amplacing petals over the woundsand peeling insidefrom the pain
Atalie Young ’05 is an English and American Literature and Language concentrator in Quincy House.