I just had to have the poppies-
some the colors
of sixties Frederick’s
fluorescent baby dolls
with a veil of aftertaste.
And others, in the softest pink
so sweet it could almost hurt your teeth.
Pink silk chiffon like the airbrushed flesh
of women in smoke shop magazines
encased in palettes of plastic silence.
A diamond cut crystal edge
so no one could smudge
the alters of those immortal Madonnas,
who bleed music and incense.
I could not even resist the white poppies
their pods ready to burst open
into Monroe’s halter dress
blowing eternal silk over the grate.
With dirt in my hands
planting the flowers,
there is the hum of scent,
stamen and stem exposed
a petal blows off
by the whim of the wind.