Well, I needed to write a Valentine’s Day poem and I needed it to be kinda different.
The Violent History of Romantic Gifts
Neanderthals scrunched heavy brows
crafting necklaces adorned with sabertooth fangs
strung together by hairs plucked
from the fatty legs of lazy mammoths.
Vikings split the ribs of enemies,
harvesting hearts they’d spike to trees,
clustering bleeding tickers on Dogwoods
and Beech in bunches of twelve
where each brute would carve the name
of his sweetest sweet. Hun warriors
sliced meaty portions from their nethers,
skillfully filleting each fleshy slab
into a filigree of adoration they quickly slapped
on the foreheads of their special gals,
but I, possessing not the courage to grapple
with Jurassic beasts nor the aptitude
to painfully, artistically carve affectations
on my heaving chest, can simply offer you
a rose as red as the blood that slicks
my veins, each petal, as soft as silk,
heralding a thousand reasons why
I’ll hold your hand forever.