So overgrown, the yellow poppies
keel over. After so much beauty,
after the heat spells of August,
a full house and then an empty house,
sweeping up to a little music
(a favorite cup dropped from a shelf),
too many attachments here:
who drank from which glass,
who couldn’t bear a phrase,
who became so shrill I’d shrink back
from what’s imprinted there. How to take
those ragged bursts of color now,
or the kerchief left behind, a scent
that lingers longer than the person.
How can I keep my own head up
when having been inside someone
is like breathing deeply, but also
having blood drawn?