When St Valentine came to the States
he found work in a meat-packing plant
living with some Slavs
in a tenement just beyond
the stockyards. Blue-eyed, stout,
he broke down carcasses daily
and the vagaries of a new language,
naming his children things like Jenny
and Fred and coming home smelling
of offal and blood until Valentin
became Valent became William,
shedding the weight he had gained
as a new-eyed baby—
the crimson name of a martyr
in some stony Slovak church
in some poor translation
of life after death. And yet
he grew up to know
exactly how heavy a heart feels
in the hand,
the sweet-sour stench
of viscera,
and he hacked
and packed pig’s feet
until the day he died
again
and was buried out in Hillside,
Our Lady of Sorrows.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
OUTSTANDING! This poem wins in so many ways I will not even try to express them in words. I will just say that I love it!
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Yeah, now that’s a great poem. And a bit of a step to the side into non-leafy / without-weather narrative. Sweet work, C.
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Thanks! Fortunately (or unfortunately) that part of Chicago is pretty non-leafy…
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Great poem, grabbed me at the first line. Tried to re-blog on my page but can only do the first section, hope people come over & read it.
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Thanks, Lizzie, for the repost!
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