Again I’m called upon to cleave
the poppy from the stem
the weight, the choice that isn’t mine
to make, to take, forsake the one
breast, for one who Cancer calls, cupidinous
a fever creeping shore to sandy shore
and I. Must wait.
And will you, wont you, busy oars
while seasons stretch at winter’s pace
The ice grows thin, the shadows long
But not the daffodil, the heads that bob
their eager eyes, they learn, I learn
They do not know the fate
and I. Prevaricate.
Equivocate. I do not say
the choice is all but made
May. May it is again. Unless you call
and cleave with me. Your voice
Your hungry voice, so parched, so cold
a brittle line, remembers when
and I. Go home.