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Poppies

Christopher Cassetty

Bloody constellations—and patterns—
lay beneath my woeful nepenthe,
strewn by fate across my bed, and floor,
where they dry and wither, and turn
brown, almost—almost as if  to say
no joy may last longer than it takes
to feel satisfied, and I’m not satisfied.
I watch these stars stir amidst the
bleakness of  dried tears, and virgin
stars join, occasionally, as old ones are
blown away like dust when they grow too
old to keep themselves whole, and when
will I join their fate? not long, not long,
I watch her droop, as if  there is no amount
of  love and care that could be given to
force these dying cells awake—and I weep;
I weep at my bedside while these stars 
burn my feet, and in some ebbing measure
of  hope—for the chance that a tear will
bless this earth and heal my burns—I will
not surcease. The curtains sough through
open windows, and feels my grieving face
the virility of  Spring—and I see through
watery eyes my nepenthe drowned, and
only then do I realize that it is possible
to love something too—too much.