Of course Saint Valentine was a martyr.

We all are. Really. 

They don’t know when or why exactly–

but it seems at some point a Roman cut off his head.

I wish I knew more about ancient Rome.

Then I could fully appreciate the idea

of Saint Valentine bolstering a bright pink

tin heart full of chocolate-dipped strawberries

in one hand and the other grasping a

bouquet of half-wilted Grocery store roses

like a Shepard’s staff in the other.

He would find niether very useful when seized by

emperor Claudius for marrying Christians

in a pagan state.

He might think chocolate is too sweet.

He might get annoyed by Hershey kiss wrappers.

He might think the roses could be

used as a weapon to swat at the soldiers who

took him away to be executed.

He might have wished for a lumpy teddy bear

as a shelf.

He might put his thumbs on

blind girl eyes– let her see

the world in sweet hearts

that she eats in the line at the grocery

store– thinking about how people

made candy to pretend love

is nothing but sweet cavities

and chocolate planets.

But aren’t we all made of the blood

of blind girls AND martyrs.