1 Poem

Carina Solis

Carina Solis is a sixteen-year-old writer living in Georgia. The author of Daughtersong (Bottlecap Press, 2023, BUY HERE), she has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, The National Poetry Quarterly, The New York Times, and others. Carina’s work appears in Gone Lawn, Heavy Feather Review, HAD, and elsewhere. Currently, she serves as a Senior Editor at Polyphony Lit, and a General Editor at The Origami Review. Find her on Twitter and Instagram and visit her website.

Apology Baby

The stars staring back at us. A cigarette

smoldering in your left hand, my waist

gripped in your right. You lean over, kiss my cheek

the way exhaust swallows air. A thin breath

between blackened lips and a bomb:

watch the explosion, my teeth cracking

in your mouth. A hunger so sinking I decide

to drown instead, melting into a love

that will never happen. Becoming splatters of rain.

By rain I mean a self-portrait—my skin broken

with the yellow cuts and june-slicked tears

of a thunderstorm. Wind-rushing trails of hurt.

What it means to be alive: a bruise. A fat clump

of hyacinths puckered on my hips.

In front of us, petals shrivel into the breaking

of a stream. Night beetles skitter beneath our feet.

Let me tell you: tomorrow, I want to be a liar.

Now let me show you: I can make myself believe

that nothing more will happen. No cigarette bones

or apologies. No grief humming to my wounds.

I'll wake up and be the heart you've always desired.

You and your hands can open me

all over again.