Poppy Cotton and Dying Blossom

Poppy Cotton and Dying Blossom

By Aisha Al-Tarawneh

Sometimes to live is to die, 

To take your soul with shaking hands,

Laying it to the side, gently, cruelly 

In the way you work it off the hooks in your

Chest, plucking the fabrics of a being

Out of a heart like a slaughtered crow

Between the jaws of a rabid fox. 

The sound of paws is pattering

In the distant woods, and the shadows 

Cast by the moon's incessant weeping

Flutter softly into each other upon the 

Lulling grass, whispering, soothing

In the way it sways in the breeze; 

You rather think the world’s coming to an end

And yet, you live, for God’s sake, you live,

You die alive, bones creaking between 

Your fingers, and knuckles blossoming in an

Erupting star show of tumbling blue bruises. 

Sometimes to live is to die, 

To clench fingers in your hair, tugging,

Tearing apart the seams in your mind,

And the cotton, it spills into red bloom

To kiss the nose of your dark boots like 

Poppy flowers, shy, peeking, staring up

At the skies between the hands of death; 

Gentle buds bloom green in winter’s wake.