We Play Paradise with Poppy Seeds

Beloved,

we have lost the gardenias

that once trembled

on your collarbone

like soft refusals.

we have lost the zamzam

sliding down your neck

like prayer too shy for language.

the aromatics braided

themselves into your pulse,

then scattered—

like doves trained

in emergency exits.

but in the wind:

salt the color of bomb mud.

not sea. not soil.

something in between

the end and the beginning.

but in the air:

a shinara’s crow

to the blistering sun—

bokra! bokra!

tomorrow!

tomorrow!

we will bloom

even if the bloom is red.

we will bleed

even if the bleeding seeds another field.

tomorrow!

tomorrow!

we plant orchards on rubble,

name each tree after a child

who still dreams

inside the mortar.

tomorrow!

tomorrow!

cactus pears for hearts—

thorned, yes,

but sweet.

tomorrow!

tomorrow!

we play paradise with poppy seeds.

no matter the air strikes,

no matter the bloodshed,

no matter the hard ears,

no matter the dark.