Daisy Cutter

Pause here at the flower stand—mums

and gladiolas, purple carnations

dark as my heart. We are engaged

in a war, and I want to drag home

any distraction I can carry. Tonight

children will wake to bouquets of fire

that will take their breath away. Still,

I think of my life. The way you hold me,

sometimes, you could choke me.

There is no way to protect me,

except by some brilliant defence.

I want the black iris with their sabered blooms.

I want the flame throwers: the peonies,

the sunflowers. I will cut down the beautiful ones

and let their nectared sweetness bleed

into the careless air. This is not the world

I'd hoped it could be. It is horrible,

the way we carry on. Last night, you catalogued

our arsenal. You taught me devastation

is a goal we announce in a celebration

of shrapnel.

XC

Our bombs shower in anticipation of their marks. You said this

is to assure damage will be widely distributed.

What gruesome genius invents our brutal hearts?

When you touch me I am a stalk of green panic

and desire. Wait here while I decide which

of these sprigs of blossoming heartbreak I can afford

to bring into my home. Tonight's dreams will erupt

in chaotic buds of flame. This is the world we have

arranged. It is horrible, this way we carry on.