by Barbara Crooker
hit the gravel-strewn road. Take your cold shoulder with you,
your icy breath. I’m tired of your hard freezes, the little snow squalls
that litter the ground like so many flakes of dandruff. I want a new man,
with a soft touch, who brings me jonquils in green tissue paper, whose
voice is like rain, who paints the sky robin’s egg blue, just for me,
just because I want it.
— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 1