Bern, Switzerland
There are poppies in the wheat field
and my son has to dig one up, roots and all,
to add to his herbarium for biology class;
and I have fifty-two hundred Swiss Francs
in my Fight-or-Flight envelope,
a habit of hoarding unbroken since childhood
(and which I’m sure says more about me
than I care to know), though at the moment
there is nowhere to go.
The borders are closed in every direction
and how can I fight what I can’t see,
what clots and thickens the blood?
Thirty limp flowers on my balcony—
forget-me-nots, crocuses, snowbells—
laid out and labeled on white paper,
photographed and filed
then left to shrivel in the sun.
My passport is set to expire
before the US Embassy reopens
for citizen services
and I have never felt so trapped.
This flower project is an easy A
(which he really needs),
so each time I return from the woods
I tell him which blossoms I saw
and off he goes: little grim reaper,
trowel in hand.
I feel bad about the flowers, but it’s a long list,
and he needs to kill one of each
if he wants to pass.