a journal of fantastical poetry

Last Letters

by Sonya Taaffe

Remember me to the men in the harvest—tell them I am alright so far.
        —Harry Lewis Lincoln (August 12, 1914)

Wrote the man in the other harvest, the redder one
that broke a wave of poppies on the century,
the drag of their names
under leather-rotten earth
still churning to the surface ninety-nine years on.
Our heels snag on skull-flints,
our heads on the poet's arcana,
turning up shell-shock and gas-drill
for coins, cups, staves.
Even the paper is soaked with ghosts,
so much silence shoveled under lime.
The children of Troy played Hektor and Achilles
in Apollo's wide-walled streets until they burned.

October 20th, 2014

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