night blooms, pitchy. if there is a voice out there chanting pithy vespers to tranquilize evening’s pixilated mane, clearing its throat to recite, call it by my name. center my pose under your loaf, dun moon—mother goddess you—like sparkling fruit a vine-ripe bulb of muscadine. i’ll shine like a marbled goblet of wine: plump & plum a still, still life but never, never dumb in your full-bodied light. o, mother, mother moon with your glinting skin materialize out of flotage & brume, unveil the slack masterpiece that i am minus your gloss. feed me! am i noth- ing to you? goddess, you are my life & i, the gilded progeny am an overwrought structure, carved by nature, curved & nurtured a stilted fixture, whim of your stature, i am indebted to you, would fall to bed— would wed—would marry you! dazzle me like juliet beseeching a wary but better-for-it romeo, don’t take me slow, make me soon, my huntress, fortuitous moon bend here, not there, here. render me splendid—but never a fool—here, nearer near
Driving it Home and Keeping it There
My straitlaced drift fazed you & erased the mark I had intended. You scoffed at the love song I wrote. I stood watch: a watch, all boots & a coat as you left our hotel room unlit & left me in the dark. If I bottlerocket lines you’d never split but stay in spite of order or size of font. For me to be unique all that I want is a start. An illusionist & fit I’d pen wet gems you’d strain to see I’d let love letters rest upon a shelf disguised as art. Pursuit—does it belie a needful self? Or does courtship flatter the ego, what does it achieve? On second thought stay free. Love scares me.
The morning I lost you in Vörösmarty square I was searching for a pharmacy. Little did I know you were blending in somewhere among the musicians and the mimics. Little did you know I had woken with a flare- up of morning sickness. You weren’t the type to sport a wedding band (although I didn’t need a husband). I found you hidden under a New York Yankees cap. You took my hand to walk the promenade. Instead I headed back to our room to take a nap and make use of the purchase I had made. As I slept the expecting woman turned the white stick blue. My inert body’s soul was comprised of two.
Jennifer Juneau is the author of the poetry collection More Than Moon, due out in 2018 from Is a Rose Press. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for Fiction, the Million Writers Award, a Sundress Best of the Net Award, and has been published in magazines such as the American Poetry Journal, Cincinnati Review, Columbia Journal, Diaphanous, Evergreen Review, Pank, Seattle Review, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She lives in NYC where she is active in poetry and prose readings in Brooklyn and on the Lower East Side.