a reflection on a birth's eve

we are little fragments glued together
bounding on our merry way
colliding and contriving
falling apart into piles on the ground

she kneels next to me
helping me reassembled
temporarily
until the next gust of wind
or different pile of fragments
blows me to pieces

brokeness comes from the gut
abs contract as we release
bits of water and snot

she is aging and yet much more beautiful than I
she cries, yet I rarely see it
if she becomes uncollected in front of me
what will i do
will i know how to help her put herself back

sometimes i fear a broom will come
and sweep our fragments into a pan
and we shall stay in our broken state
sobbing and screaming
is the anticipation worse than the event?

Red Poppy (draft 1)

This little red fabric flower
with the thin wire stem
and green plastic middle.
Bought every 11th of November
for an unstated price
dollars and coins shoved into
a can with a white paper cover.

To go to men who weren’t as lucky as that Big Swede.
The older man in clean, but worn clothes
holds the tin and smiles gratefully
when a donation is made.
But within those turned lips
is a bit of sadness.
Because he and the white haired Swede survived.

Floating in life with unmentionable memories
that well up inside and burst forth
during the night.
Tremors, tears and tension
reliving the fear
of bombs, shrapnel and guns.

Death and loss, more times than could be grieved.
The mind cannot wrap around
this little poppy that sits upon my dashboard.

But I hunt for the weathered man
in front of the grocery stores.
To give the donation for my Swedish father,
who would walk up to the granite wall,
Press his hand upon the name
of the hero… his luck.
Trace the name with bits of charcoal
and insert the wire in the crack.

The phone won’t stir this year
with the Swede’s voice:
“Remember…
Remember…
Those who gave their lives for their country.”

While our views differed about wars,
lost lives are lost lives.

And I will find the little red poppies and buy two.