Whodunnit In Heaven? Poem by Garry Stanton

Love was in this place. He
scuttled and lounged and
slobbed,
made himself welcome. But
his face has changed, his little
eyes
hollow.
Sometimes
he is no longer
here. Love is not dead,
at least I never killed him.

Powerful little Angel,
manipulator of hearts and
loins. Cupid, blind, peripatetic,
his pleasanter cousin.
He cannot see how sharp, how good
his arrow of altruism is. Cupid,
mercurial,
precise, cherubic
little
random
deity.

Mischievous
silken bow,
poison-tipped velvet
flint.

So did you and Love
fall out, Cupe? Did you
fight over morsels
d’amour? Or did
Love kill you,
dear Cupid?

Because, around here,
things look
really bad.
Love is angry, Cupid is fun.
Love is selfish, Cupid concerned.
Love is violent, Cupid too.

But who will survive,
in this house,
where the dust of Love
moulders in the grave
where hope
bloomed?