from boykeats

there’s a field of poppies at the edge beyond everything,
and in it michael sitting with his cough syrup red
wings and his muddied army boots and his mouth
full of thorns where the teeth should be.

you stumble up to him, damp human feet, calloused
human hands. you have seen stars and stars and stars
on your way here, but none of it compares to how
you feel the ache in your neck beginning to dissipate.

michael gestures, take a seat, so you do beside him.
the flowers smell like they did on earth, clean, sun-warm,
but the wind here sings. you say, i didn’t think i’d be
allowed to make it this far. michael smiles, his mouth

jagged yet sweet: you can go farther if you like.
i know there’s at least one man in the place beyond
all places who would gladly clasp your shoulders, kiss
your cheek, and tell you that you were worth the pain

which must always come before redemption.