A Valentine for Emily

​
It was not Pain—for I felt none— 
It was no common wound— 
It was not sour—for both my ears
Heard only dulcet sound.

Archery of Hearts—Valentine— 
With Robin Hood’s sure aim— 
The mark—a bull’s eye of Delight— 
The target free from harm.

A kindly Atlas—fast and firm— 
Supports a flying Arch— 
Column vaulting up—then earthwards— 
From Portico to Plinth.

You smile—a whole Society— 
Arms wide to let me in— 
Together—Queen and church mouse waltz— 
Belonging—boisterous—Kin.    

       



            Juno Februata


                Between smeared sandstone arches
                giggles of reveling boys seep into
                the bloodied dungeon courtyard where
                Pater Valentinus, apprehended for 
                succoring martyrs, remanded to the
                Prefect of Rome, is reminded of
                his broken pledges to apostasize,
                soundly clubbed then, for renouncing
                renunciation, decapitated.  This on
                the fourteenth of February, circa 270.

                Why Valentine’s Day, then, with
                hearts in place of clubs, arrows
                and not axes?  Why universal
                cries of Amor Vincit Omnia?

                Moved by their heathen hormones,
                deemed lewd by the Church-At-Last-
                Triumphant, Roman boys once daubed 
                on walls the names of favored girls.
                The festival of Juno Februata fell
                on the fifteenth.  The bishops, resolved
                to blot out this risqué festivity, to beat
                it by a day, slice off its curly head,
                ordained a sexless commemoration
                of the defunct Saint Valentinus.

                Yet paganism persists; beneath 
                the martyr’s blood a red heart crammed
                with chocolates, pierced by a half-
                fledged Cupid—no cherub he, with his
                stiff quiver and merciless mouth. 
                Secular Hallmark descends from the 
                scribbling of little Gaius, lusty Marius,
                precocious Cato forming in crude
                capitals (with or without lewd intent)
                the names of their chiton-wearing
                charmers.  Valentine’s name and day
                survive as an unwilling apostasy,
                as martyrdom’s trumped by love.

                The basilica belongs to Juno Februata
                who smiles a day early and cocks an
                eye to spy out what Jupiter is writing. 

​