to all of us

the store bought roses, wilted
soon in their wrap.
the simple
card.
the quarter pound of sweets
in bright foil.
our love is thin
and fragile.
the broken glass is on
the floor,
the spilled wine,
the burned meal
unserved.
I hear my father's curse,
taste my mother's
tears.
the salt is in the wound.
what has cupid done
to all of us?