When Your Daughter Is Shot on Valentine’s Day

Which parent stays home to meet your son

Which parent waits along the curb

among discarded carnations

and candy grams which parent stares

at classroom doors for any chance

she can utter later, “but for the grace

of god,” “what a tragedy,” “we feel so

lucky” which parent waits and

waits and

waits, the cut-out heart edge jagged on the door

to her room the words you etched the night before

“be mine” “I’m yours” “there is nothing unlovely

about you” which parent traces the paper, the tear

taped over

which parent presses her breath of life to a phone

to whisper the worst truth of love,

that it can be wrenched, ripped, torn, lost,

gone

which parent will remember

to cancel the dinner reservation

the only thing left to do

from the life she knew this morning which parent

will this break which parent

will this turn to dynamite

who will choose the coffin dress

who will carry dried petals in their pockets

who will hold on, and hold on, and hold on

until all that’s left is faded paper hearts and dust