up or down

Sinking

back into the memory of who I am.

The plan laid out brick by sunny brick.

Adrift in a sea of red,

where you laid me down among

those who grow

row on row,

slowly,

up or down.

Oubliette.

Bayonet.

Intimate shadow play.

Hallowed it may be

but still only a name

and, though I may go gently,

none will ever smell as sweet.

Thorns your fingers bite.

She will gladly lick them clean

but the scars will not heal.

Not while you conceal

that which you left

in the field

to forget.

Rising

from the memory of who I was to you.

The shrew I could not tame.

The screw you turned too tightly

now embedded in a sea of red

left to rust or to grow,

row on row,

slowly,

up or down.

Magnet.

Dragnet.

Hanged at dawn.

Left too long

to remember your name or

the game we played

to make ourselves feel strong.

Spindle my paws prick

and I will lick them clean,

and the scars will soon heal

while I lie concealed

in the poppy field,

to forget.