Cupid's Calendar
It is not my custom to question a god
(Especially one so maligned by fashion),
but why did Cupid claim February?
Could any month to Cupid's soul
bear less likeness? February
is a barren, burglar of hope;
more love I have found in the other eleven,
than in the dim days of February.
In the winds of January one wheels like a
scholar, back book-bent, who has just
straightened anew after long study to see
the librarian is fair-sculpted. Warlike
March, mighty in the meeting of sun
and snow, for lovers I have known is far
more the model. April, May, and June
are amicable maiden gypsies, dancing
with joyous madness upon flower
and blade. Beware the heat in
July’s green gaze--dark trysts in damp
woods without way of return. August,
aches for cool beach beds under a
honey moon while rum drums in the veins.
September skips like a selfish schoolboy
until, suddenly stooping,
he finds joy in the flavor of books
being carried for a fair-faced friend.
The leaping-leaf-fire ferocity of October
draws one’s affections upward
as camp smoke draws the eyes of two lovers
from each other's cartographied bodies
to the gaze of the galaxy's endless stars.
Last, November and December, not lovers,
true, but love--grandmothers, grace, and bread dough.
Such spouses would seem a seemlier choice.
And yet...
a fall of February rain whispers that I overstep.
It is not my place to play matchmaker to a god;
a more compassionate ken than mine might perceive
Cupid flinging flowers beneath her frozen feet
because she’s the month who needs him most.
by Joseph Salvatore Knipper
