poppies
a poem by Atalie Young

 

 

It was in
            the red poppy
                        that took me down
that lane again
when I’m standing near a corner garden
            and the light turns
walk Walk!
            the window screams by
but I’m stuck in your blood
            from the way
                        I can’t even cross the street
without thinking about death
            and feeling the cross
                                                bough
between my brows
                        bending to my hand red in the palm
            from the poppy I picked
but how He didn’t
                        deserve to bleed
and how I do and
                        so am
            placing petals over the wounds
and peeling inside
                        from the pain

 

 

 

 


Atalie Young ’05 is an English and American Literature and Language concentrator in Quincy House.