I thought your name meant to love,

not to carry a burden, and how

did I know today, San Valentino,

is the birthday of your darkest loss—

that three tango shoes still sulk

in a dark corner of your closet

behind the traveling trunk

with the worn out stickers:

Istanbul, Cairo, Bagdad, London,

Paris, Edinburgh? A confession—the story

of a car crash on the way to damage

my wife's lover was no consolation—

idiota! Now I know you have the amber eyes

flecked with emerald, of a water sprite,

that you tango on stilts with shadows.

I swear I would not kill a man over you.

I would be nice to the cake eater

and give him blood roses, thorn-less ones,

to fling at your feet.  We wouldn't want

the little rube to get lost among the lot lizards

working the bleachers. Basta così, amore

della mia vita, should I have known better.

Had I not been warned about the red dress

and told not to dance along the shoreline

under a Roma moon with a woman whose kiss

could pull a cold wave over my face?