February 14th

She hated carnations.
They reminded her of funerals,
and long Sundays spent listening
to celibate priests talk about a being
she knew didn't exist.
She hated carnations.
They smelled like sickness,
and her grandfather's funeral.
Like Easter morning, and old folks homes.
She hated carnations.
She had told him so.
She didn't hint about it, like usual.
She came right out and said the words,
"I hate carnations, they remind me
of death and churches."
No room for interpretation,
it was a statement of fact.
She liked dandelions, daisies,
roses were nice, as were lilies.
She liked every flower but carnations.

Carnations she hated.

Carnations are what he brought her on
February 14th.

Face

The Door On The Left

The door on the left is
always closed, shut to the light
coming from the hall,
the sounds behind it are muffled,
an occasional moan,
a nervous laugh,
a pleading apology,
a promise to try harder next time,
a pledge that this was,
really,
the last time.
The door on the left,
is painted white.
Every scuff mark shows,
every fist beat resonates within
the wood, till another takes its place.
There is no welcome mat,
just a salt stained spot in the beige carpet.
The door on the left is
always locked, the hallway light above
burned out, dust covered,
it's glass globe filled
with moths, and flies.
The door on the left is
always locked,
the door on the right
tries to not notice.