For Valentine�s, I rented a balloon.
Huge, the size of Venus, the planet,
or maybe, was it the goddess? Yes,
the size of one of her eggs. I cargoed it

with a sack of twelve store-bought
cherries. Or, cherubs�they had hairclips
and construction paper for wings,
toothpicks and floss for the bows.

I took it up above your house, real high,
to the top of the clouds�or space, maybe?
Yes it was space, it was very dark
purple and the stars were much, much

closer there. I slit each sack with bravado,
with a slash of my Arabian-style
sword, (also rented, same store). The twelve
cherries fell, but only two sprouted�pink,

heart-shaped blossoms�the other ten chutes
didn�t open, and the clip-on wings
were no good. The chubby babies,
(also rented, different store),

flailed their chubby arms, couldn�t reach
the emergency ripcords, gave up
and went off like sirens all the way down.
So when the first ten cherries fell

into your backyard, onto the white roof tiles,
the empty pool, the sundial, they hit
so hard their pits split in half, skins burst
like fever blisters, and there were red

blots everywhere. The last two cherubs
floated in, narrowly missed the phone lines
but it didn�t matter. You were scurrying
along the neatly-mowed grass, big

black pot in hand�or, wait,
a baseball mitt? No it was a pot, herbed
with crushed onion, blistering your fingertips
with the heat of the salted water.