Talk flower to me, baby
“… the red poppy often meant imagination and eternal sleep, but also pleasure . . . ‘The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where/Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent/And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?’”
Allison Meier writes in Hyperallergic about the hide-in-plain-sight secret language of flowers, as the prim Victorian loaded the bouquet with va-va-voom blooms, to do the talking for him or her.
Or, as the young, wild, mocking Istvan once observed amongst the quality:
“Sometimes the alderman’s wives enclose flowers with their billet-doux, rosemary for remembrance, blue violet for constancy, yellow tulips for hopeless love . . .”
To go under the poppy can mean many things.