"Flander's Field,"
I said
under my breath,
this red purse
shaking in my
pale hand,
the fringe hanging long,
sighing together.

He wrote poems,
once a day,
sent in tattered airmail envelopes
with dirt on the edges,
comparing my lips
to falling poppy petals-

I kept them,
upstairs,
in the drawer
of my dressing table,
wrapped with ribbon
beneath my pearl-handled mirror,
weathered calfskin gloves,
and the blue silk scarf
he bought in Rhiems.

Sometimes,
late into the evening,
I swore the letters
were singing and weeping.

"Poppies,"
I said aloud,
"My favorite,"
feeling this stiff grin,
this comic clown mouth.

I bowed my head hoping my tears
would fall into the black vase,
and that his eyes
would fall on the view.