Flowers in the 21st Century

It was a winter without snow when he handed me
a rose and called me his valentine, called me
his cherished bride.

With blushing cheeks and whispered thrills,
we hired our florist and counted the days.
We planned for a future.

It was a winter without joy when we heard the children
cry. We counted bodies. Another figure
for the public, another outcry in the news.
But the bullets were forgotten
in the ballots.

“How many this time?” we asked.
“17 dead. 17 injured.” Never enough.
But a semi truck of lilies was dispersed
between the 17 funerals.

Can their mothers forgive us
if we send another bouquet?
Like the carnations they received
in the hospital when their babies entered
the world without bulletproof vests?

They hide under desks, and turn off the lights.
We get more guns.
And they ask themselves every morning if they'll get flowers.

They pack their lunches, and send them to school.
We get more guns.
And they ask themselves every morning if they'll get flowers.

I kiss my love every morning,
my fruiting belly swelling with fear,
and I ask him,
“Will we ever run out of flowers?”