with a papercut that oozed the colour
of the poppies bleeding over the book
unopened beside the offending tome.
Its dry words – displayed, revealed still – insipid
black and white remained while her blood
dotted pale blue jeans just washed.
Nothing more painful, her mother
used to say. Sucked the wound; eyes
turned again to those poppies – accusatory
now – red a reminder of the fallen;
immortalized in words poetic and profound.
More painful that history,