Three days before Armistice Sunday
and poppies had already been placed on individual war graves.
Before you left,
I pinned one onto your lapel, crimped petals,
spasms of paper red
I wanted to graze my nose
across the tip of your nose, play at
being Eskimos
I was brave, as I walked
with you, to the front door, threw
it open
the world overflowing
like a treasure chest.
After you’d gone I went into your bedroom,
released a song bird from its cage.
my stomach busy
making tucks, darts, pleats
On reaching the top of the hill I traced
the inscriptions on the war memorial,
I listened, hoping to hear
your playground voice catching on the wind.