by Chad Hollis
I chart a roadmap
on my arm a path
of veins invaded, those harmless
poppies by grandma’s fence
Those red, red, red fire blooms
that grew beside where we wrote
our names in wet cement
in 1992 have become the gate to hell
Angel you don’t get it?
You can’t save me. Your job
is to find another entry so I can
worship poppies and rest easy