Supplanter

Morning in the driveway

with the poppy seed and trowel.

Each time I try to bury it

there comes a poppy flower

then petals stretching open

till their petal jaws are fallen.

Oh, won’t they still be open,

once the warmth is gone?

Jamie: no matter how much time,

I’ll see you in my mind until I die.

Opening the cupboard

for the poppy seeds and flour.

Making something sweet of them

before the supper hour.

Through the window saw you passing;

I rush through the door to shout —

oh, but you’re not seventeen —

you'd be much older now.

Jamie: no matter how much time,

I’ll see you in my mind until I die.

Evening in the garden

with the poppy pods all scored,

opening their opium

(afflictional reward).

When is a grape a raisin,

and how long does that take?

What did I have to lose from you

to keep your memory safe?

Jamie: no matter how much time,

I’ll see you in my mind until I die.

But who knows how to close a flower,

wilted, petals on the ground?

And who would choose to close a window

and block its light out of the house?

And who will be the friend to notice

my dependence will compound?

Oh no, oh no, oh no —

milled you into flour,

will somebody close my mouth?