Poppies Blow Your Heads Off

We are never quite the Dead.
We are only revenants
And of the living, as well.

Revenants are all we are,
From the moment we’re gestured
Or spoken or spelled to when

Children are forced to practice
Mummified patterns of us,
Numbly mumbling boring lines

About old wars and prophets,
Or repeatedly pressing
Rows of bird tracks in damp clay,

And we’re still revenants when
Someone digs us up again,
Trembling at the sight of us,

At the thought of lost voices
Come to life, songs of the Dead.
But not the Dead. We don’t sleep,

Never slept. We are their torch,
The unexploded ordnance
Your real Dead left in the ground

For you to find, and often
The curses and threats we hold
Still work. Be cautious with us.