Valentines Day

Bring in your dead,

she said.

So I dragged my lovers

out of the warm cocoons of my sheets

out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms

and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but

at their trousers, their watches, their wallets

such tangible treasures that they worship instead.

I walked down 17th street,

my body a mirror for the heat of the sun

the bodies were heavy (including my own)

and every single step, another lover said to me

don't let go; you're not ready.

He, of course, was right.

I waited until their protests

became my history, my poetry

under the cover of night.