Grandad planted a poppy seed
in our garden on my thirteenth birthday.
He said it was a memory seed.
I didn't know what it meant then,
so I smiled and watered it.
Words, hinted with honey, sprouted between his teeth,
and sunflower breaths filled the corner of the bedroom.
Sunday afternoons tear like rising
red skies in a purple orchestra.
A note of "twisted souls" — not for me, but I kept it anyway.
Bedsheets smelled of burnt coffee; mornings were a
harsh metaphor for burning August.
Nowadays, my mouth aches with unsaid words.
My fingers are too weak now, dipped in rancid glitter.
I find the room darker than usual, like a crushed black hole.
I dream of poppies near Gran's feet and baby blue eyes.
I dream of intense oblivion with stars
bleeding around; I see him.
Another garden of broken moon shards,
planted in splintered nostalgia blooms.
Girls wilt flowers and suck them, memories
now stacked in the backseat of my car.
Nostalgia feels so disgusting in my throat,
like when I tasted a rotten poppy.
Goddesses rise and drown but never die.
The lipstick smudges never get erased from
the mirror; they look like traces of Gran's footsteps.
I kiss the poppy petal; the wind splits
through my window as the fog rises.
The garden blazes in bloom; it's another burden
of being in love with a dream, hanging in moon tides.