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Hint
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Answer
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Three days before Armistice Sunday
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and poppies had already been placed
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on individual war gravers. Before you left,
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I pinned one onto your lapel, crimped petals,
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spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockade
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of yellow bias binding around your blazer.
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SPACE
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1
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Sellotape bandaged around my hand,
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I rounded up as many white cat hairs
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as I could, smoothed down your shirt's
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upturned collar, steeled the softening
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of my face. I wanted to graze my nose
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across the tip of your nose, play at
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being Eskimos like we did when
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you were little. I resisted the impulse
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to run my fingers through the gelled
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blackthorns of your hair. All my words
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flattened, rolled, turned into felt,
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SPACE
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1
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slowly melting. I was brave, as I walked
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with you, to the front door, threw
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it open, the world overflowing
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like a treasure chest. A split second
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and you were away, intoxicated.
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After you'd gone I went into your bedroom,
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released a song bird from its cage.
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Later a single dove flew from the pear tree,
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and this is where it has led me,
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skirting the church yard walls, my stomach busy
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making tucks, darts, pleats, hat-less, without
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a winter coat or reinforcements of scarf, gloves.
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SPACE
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1
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On reachiing the top of the hill I traced
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the inscriptions on the war memorial,
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leaned against it like a wishbone.
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The dove pulled freely against the sky,
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an ornamental stitch. I listened, hoping to hear
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your playground voice catching on the wind.
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