those poppies in my garden

Those poppies in my garden

weren't quite burnt orange

and they'd rather be dead

than called

blood red. 



Those poppies in my garden

were blooming the day

you closed your eyes for good

I couldn't tell if they or you

were the talk of the neighborhood.

Those poppies in my garden

I clipped the tall one

being kissed by bees

emptied my good mezcal and slid her in

I was in the dirt, on my knees.

Those poppies in my garden

refused to be named

as you refused to be kept

so when you died, you were still lost

and it was over that, not you, that I wept.

Those poppies in my garden

Not blood orange

and not burnt red

a color that's missing from the palette

like you because you're dead.