Poppy by Lisel Mueller

When they stop reaching for the moon,
the children begin to reach for the poppy.
They know without knowing that death is red,
its petals thinner than the thin skin
of their crackling crepe paper fevers,
and that it has a dark center
in which they can disappear.

It is not that they want to die,
only to come as close to death
as anyone has who is still alive,
run through the fire quickly enough,
pull open the parachute just in time,
They want to taste one pollen grain
from the bitter bread that grows
among the yellow, ignorant wheat.
Years later they  will reveal to you
there was a time when they almost drowned
in the river that flows backwards,
the water that has no place to go.
They will tell you as gently as they can.