you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. and you feel like you've done something terrible,
like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. you're in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to
choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you
don't even have a name for.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.



On the 11th month of the 11th day at the 11th hour,
soldiers threw down their weapons,
signalling the end of World War I.

Lest we forget.