You are far from home,
a body in a field I cannot visit.
Even my eyebrows: blue,
and split at the seams with your mention.
Give me only muted color,
black roses, a brown glass bottle.
Nothing that exists or dies loudly,
nothing you ever mentioned in a poem.
Because suddenly there are poppies everywhere,
thrust from the cracked streets,
and I want to rip their red heads
from the stems, powder the remains.
My body is a bruise, purpled with loss.
I am tired of swallowing your name,
finding ink on each of your shirts,
red petals in the pages of books.