Carina Solis
FLOWERS WHERE THEY FALL
at sunrise
we shoot bullets
into yellow daffodil fields
curled by the scent of spring.
there are flowers where they fall,
hollow point petals
smothered in
the rotted reek of gunpowder.
the pulsing stench
settles on our dawn-lit skin
and there is something
beautiful about the loss
stirred into my morning coffee.