Bullets and Wildflowers

 

A whole
pile of bullets
used to be
a bedtime snack,
or sometimes
breakfast.
The aching gut
of metallic betrayal.

Now I’m fed
wildflowers covered in six-am
dew, plucked from the ground
and squeezed at the stem
until the milk drips out
onto the tongue,
rigor mortis
twitching out last breaths.

The contrast is
a black eye,
and a birthday spanking.

The contrast
transforms perception of survival
from an argument,
part of this complete breakfast,
served with promises
of renewed splendor,

to veins plucked with affection,
the wet wildflower squeezed
with care, not malice,
so that we can both be
free of our stems in the end.