Valentine's Day

by Brett Rutherford

The answer to everything
seems to be shooting.

Arrows in hearts
have brought me nothing
but misery. Worse yet
for poor Sebastian,
The Saint of Love
as it is actually
practiced.

Pink is a passing

hue, the moment before
the blood spurts out.

Deer dead,
air bags pierced,
substations shattered,
balloons plummeting,
lost kites targeted
by Tomahawk missiles;

even Eros, if he flew
to bring me good
tidings, is doomed,
a downed mallard
locked in the jaw
of a drooling hound.

Love is a bullet.
The grizzle-bearded
hunter rules the day.
Will you be my —
Splat.