Sometimes
a lover just wants you
to bring them
a dying thing—
And so I find myself
at the bus stop, on Valentines Day,
in Michigan where the winter wind
is killing me—softly—yet slow enough that I can
make it to the store before it does me in—
Earlier that day
a friend had sent a text about
how in ancient times on this special occasion
Romans would kill a goat
and use the still wet skin as a whip
for striking women
in order to boost their fertility—
Women who
were very much willing
to stand in line for the opportunity.
Sometimes
a woman wants this, these:
A dead thing / To be struck / To be covered in the blood
Often
A man does too—But on that evening
It is a woman who stands before me—As I hold
a bouquet behind my back
The rubies of which I reveal to the beaming
light of her face which unveils its true face
its florets like brilliant blades
its stems bursting forth with red sickle shapes.
No vase.
She sets the dozen in a coffee pot
leaves them to brew beneath the kitchen’s fluorescent bulb
their organic glow building on vermillion edges,
a half-life, an undead beauty like radioactive waves outstretched
penetrating like x-rays—I feel a pang in my chest
and then a raindrop on my right hand
where, looking, I see a tiny prick and rose blossom
where a thorn must have bitten in.
I say nothing—
By then, she has made her way
to the couch and motions for me to join.
And because
sometimes,
a lover wants you
to bring them a dying thing,
I shuffle myself over to her
and kiss her, once more—once more
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