Poppy’s Revenge
DK Crawford
I snuck gently under the full moon on soft feet through the crispy jagged foxtail forest after making sure Cayo was otherwise occupied so their pointy, armored heads wouldn’t embed in his fur, or get in his ears or nose as they have past summers. I have been secretly waiting for the giant poppies I spied earlier in the spring to make their seed pods. I keep passing them each day, noting their placement and waiting for them to mature. I am coveting their seeds and envisioning giant poppies engulfing my garden next spring.
I come from a lineage of seed-snatchers. I remember sudden stops on the side of winding southern highways so my mother could jump out and scramble down an embankment to grab some special wildflower seed she’s spied as we flew by it at 65 mpg. How she couldn't put on her mascara but her eyes could spot a rare wildflower so quickly was something I never rectified. If she was compelled enough by her find, she would dump out a cup of whatever she was drinking from Stuckey's and dig up a seedling and its native around it and I’d start triage as the passenger giving it water and cool air as continued on.
I finally got close to the pods and grabbed a large bulbous head and snapped its summer-browned stem. But as I do, I smell green live plant juices dripping from it and feel slightly sickened -- I plucked it too soon! I stuff the young pod in my pocket and. “Ouch!" the serrated disk on its top bites into my hand. It’s sharp edges remind me of the antique western spurs we had at our farm — metal made to “almost” cut and jingle and command attention and authority. Who knew the seed pod of a giant lavender poppy could be so formidable; almost dangerous? What does the poppy need to protect its seeds from other than night thieves like me?
Cayo and I love and walk out into the dark streets. This is our time under the moon and stars. We own the silence and still air and gentle night sounds. The noise and angst and hustle of the city has stopped for the day -- locked itself behind doors and curtains and hidden away until tomorrow. This is our sacred time to dance and run and play and sniff freely and discover mysteries that go unnoticed in the light of busyness. We breathe in the grace.
As we turn toward home over the familiar terrain of dried magnolia leaves crunching loudly under foot and visit special tufts of grasses Cayo loves to rub against, I realize how dark it is around us. Like pitch dark. Many of our neighbors have their interior lights on still, but curiously, the street lights are out. As we turn down our alley my eyes acclimate more and more to the shadows and hues of blacks and grays of the night so I can see where I’m stepping.
We open our door and inside the kitchen are met with a fluorescent shock of bright light and stark white walls and my pupils almost explode. I reach into my pocket and take out the poppy pod and the few fallen peaches I gathered along the way and put them, my coat and the leash on the table. As I look down to take off my shoes, on the white floor right in front of my door are three dime-sized spots of a ruddy thick red liquid.
I look around and everything seems normal. I put my finger in the liquid and bring it up to my nose and get the undeniable smell of iron. Blood. Fresh blood. I look at Cayo who seems fine, and Poupart the cat is curled in a ball. I look at my hands and everything around me and these three thick spots appear to be the only thing out of place. I call my girlfriend who lives in the neighborhood and have her stay on the phone with me while I open closets and look underneath the couch and bed. (In my neighborhood, having an escaped and injured convict run through your unlocked house while you’re out on a walk wouldn’t be unheard of.) But I find no evidence of anyone and Cayo isn’t sniffing and acting like someone came through.
I get on the ground with Cayo and examine every part of his body. I go to the mirror to make sure my nose isn’t randomly bleeding. I check my feet, all seems fine. I look all over my house because if one of us is bleeding, surely we did so elsewhere as well? But there is nothing. Nothing on white comforters, on dog beds, on floors. The kitty wakes up with a stretch and comes over and smells as I am cleaning up the blood. He seems curious and starts smelling the doorway and acting intrigued. My friend on the phone suggests maybe he brought in a rat I’m not aware of that might resurface. “A maimed rat?” I say to her, horrified at the option of going to sleep and having some unknown bleeding creature jump on me shrieking in the night.
I shuffle gently from door-to-door making certain everything is locked, wishing I wasn’t the only adult in the house and I keep glancing where the spots were, feeling a bit like Lady MacBeth. The animals are now asleep, unaware of any danger. As I reach to turn off the light, my eyes land on the poppy pod taken too soon that rests seemingly benignly on the table near the door...
I finally got close to the pods and grabbed a large bulbous head and snapped its summer-browned stem. But as I do, I smell green live plant juices dripping from it and feel slightly sickened -- I plucked it too soon! I stuff the young pod in my pocket and. “Ouch!" the serrated disk on its top bites into my hand. It’s sharp edges remind me of the antique western spurs we had at our farm — metal made to “almost” cut and jingle and command attention and authority. Who knew the seed pod of a giant lavender poppy could be so formidable; almost dangerous? What does the poppy need to protect its seeds from other than night thieves like me?
Cayo and I love and walk out into the dark streets. This is our time under the moon and stars. We own the silence and still air and gentle night sounds. The noise and angst and hustle of the city has stopped for the day -- locked itself behind doors and curtains and hidden away until tomorrow. This is our sacred time to dance and run and play and sniff freely and discover mysteries that go unnoticed in the light of busyness. We breathe in the grace.
As we turn toward home over the familiar terrain of dried magnolia leaves crunching loudly under foot and visit special tufts of grasses Cayo loves to rub against, I realize how dark it is around us. Like pitch dark. Many of our neighbors have their interior lights on still, but curiously, the street lights are out. As we turn down our alley my eyes acclimate more and more to the shadows and hues of blacks and grays of the night so I can see where I’m stepping.
We open our door and inside the kitchen are met with a fluorescent shock of bright light and stark white walls and my pupils almost explode. I reach into my pocket and take out the poppy pod and the few fallen peaches I gathered along the way and put them, my coat and the leash on the table. As I look down to take off my shoes, on the white floor right in front of my door are three dime-sized spots of a ruddy thick red liquid.
I look around and everything seems normal. I put my finger in the liquid and bring it up to my nose and get the undeniable smell of iron. Blood. Fresh blood. I look at Cayo who seems fine, and Poupart the cat is curled in a ball. I look at my hands and everything around me and these three thick spots appear to be the only thing out of place. I call my girlfriend who lives in the neighborhood and have her stay on the phone with me while I open closets and look underneath the couch and bed. (In my neighborhood, having an escaped and injured convict run through your unlocked house while you’re out on a walk wouldn’t be unheard of.) But I find no evidence of anyone and Cayo isn’t sniffing and acting like someone came through.
I get on the ground with Cayo and examine every part of his body. I go to the mirror to make sure my nose isn’t randomly bleeding. I check my feet, all seems fine. I look all over my house because if one of us is bleeding, surely we did so elsewhere as well? But there is nothing. Nothing on white comforters, on dog beds, on floors. The kitty wakes up with a stretch and comes over and smells as I am cleaning up the blood. He seems curious and starts smelling the doorway and acting intrigued. My friend on the phone suggests maybe he brought in a rat I’m not aware of that might resurface. “A maimed rat?” I say to her, horrified at the option of going to sleep and having some unknown bleeding creature jump on me shrieking in the night.
I shuffle gently from door-to-door making certain everything is locked, wishing I wasn’t the only adult in the house and I keep glancing where the spots were, feeling a bit like Lady MacBeth. The animals are now asleep, unaware of any danger. As I reach to turn off the light, my eyes land on the poppy pod taken too soon that rests seemingly benignly on the table near the door...
