A short poem about what it feels like to be immunocompromised and left behind post- pandemic
Poppies are used to symbolise death through conflict;
they grow tall and wild by the wayside.
Their red petals signify the blood we all share:
people lost to war, Great and deadly, numerous and petty, sacrifices deemed necessary for abstract nations to flourish.
Did I miss something? Are we at War again?
When was it I appeared on the wrong side of the equation?
Taking care of others, I was taught, was our birthright,
but that side of humanity has been boxed and shipped into space.
Humans now mourn what is more easily lost:
invisible, unless tucked away, slipped behind promises of growth for the contented.
We will be only numbers one day.
Studied, like poppies. Remembered and recited by rote.
Collected and counted
– tall and wild by the wayside –
by distant streaked faces of history.
Kirstie Sivapalan 2023
Writing and M.E. 