PINK FEBRUARY
February has always been as pink
As a part and just as straight.
Pink has always been the snow
That seems, in its holy way,
To be pumped full of the somewhat
Sanctified auricle blood of
Saint Valentine who rules the month,
Headless and heartless, hurling
Cupids and cold to the wind.
Only the pulsing wounds of demise
Throb with any sort of love, albeit
A crooked love of curly-cues
And cruelty. Even the sky above
February’s heart-shaped face
Is cold, hard and depthless as
A dime. Streaked with strain
And crosses with the black birthmark
Of Lent, February grins on like a
Sarcastic growth of the sun. The month
As a whole, rolls in the blessed warmth
Of its own euthanasia of morals and mid,
Letting its gutters drop gray rain and
Snow like lead. Cupping its curling
Womb of frost, February loosens
Its white heat and
Cries for January,
Its lover, long dead.
Copyright © 1992 by Jamie Parsley
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