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