by Creed Kidney
Red poppies dot my mind,
flowering,
in opium haze.
I tend to them alone,
watering them
with my body;
my blood, my sweat
and tears.
My essence is captured,
withheld
within their pod.
I look to them in silence,
apathetic
in their health.
There are those
who trample
my poppies;
there are those
who wish them
dead.
Some people ask me to grow
sunflowers,
perhaps,
an ornamental grass.
But I will continue to grow
my poppies,
learn to smile
as they thrive.
As I lean back into
the opiate,
I remember caring for my flowers.