War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

Wednesday, May 14, 2008 — Poppy Harvest

o M.,

maybe it’s the rain. or the phone that’s gone dead. or maybe it’s the email you didn’t send. or maybe it’s this spring that’s so damned quiet.

J. txted me. said you’d taken your men out. again. outside. the ring of razor wire.

to poppy fields. opium bellies. you once said they stink like fetid rhubarb. you drive straight through them. mow them. your leaguer a metal ring, knuckle duster, “we’re here you fuckers”.

and all night on hilltops, watchers watch watchers watch watchers. your cigarettes, lit laser. tag.

and today. no phone. no email. no nothing. comms lock down. means only one thing.

who would call me if it’s you? J? your best friend.

o M, maybe it’s the rain.

or the phone that’s gone dead. or the poppies in my garden. swelling to open.
blood red.

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Welcome to MayDay

MayDay is a series of letters in prose, poem, txt, email, of a young woman to her infantryman lover serving in Afghanistan.

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