Poppy Fields Behind Closed Doors

At the bottom of the cave infested behind my stomach

Each stone yells out in color, spilling into red and orange and yellow heat, dripping as blue, purple and gray devour their cool stillness

Unsure of my own role I am without end,

In the most ancient of all prisons-

Comfort.

Doubt of my ability to feel foreign storms has convinced me that none are forceful enough to tear down the trees surrounding my shelter with a green embrace,

Separate their roots from the dirt they've clawed themselves into with uncut nails.

Each of them I have planted begging to let themselves be pulled out

From the damp under.

It's early spring in the cave

There's a poppy growing out of a crack on the sidewalk in my chest

Beyond it, I'm not sure which season a storm could bring.

Released from common touch,

I don't fear floods drowning the dry pages of my bookshelf or

Raging winds forcefully breaking into the wooden cabinet that always smells like salt and cumin

To lead each carefully chosen plate

Fished out on the flea market, inherited from friends or gifted by my mother

Into pitiful pieces of torn china,

Unkind to soft skin.

I'd bare agitated rain washing away the silky kimono fabric off of my spine,

Exposing the two dimples embedded into my lower back,

My low-hanging shoulders,

The birthmark on my upper thigh without a particular shape,

All the laughable, dark hairs I haven't shaved off in time for summer-

but,

My toolbox is rusty and

I have forgotten how to repair damage

Or perhaps, I remember it all too well.

I had less books the last time,

My plates were plain with simple round edges (some of them already chipped),

I hadn't gotten that scar from my first encounter with a friends bull terrier.

My hips were more narrow,

The shamrock dress with a bare back hadn't yet been made

Or carefully ironed, hanging in my closet.

It's always early spring in the cave.

I have no coats for the winter that a storm might bring.