Jonathan Owen May
Balloon flesh gleams through hot July windows,
winks in the light at all the passing goers-by.
The stoned employees slurp helium with shrill
glee, anxious for their next cigarette break. James
wants to wait for Stewart so they can make out.
Napkins and plates and table weights festooned
with the hero of a thousand and one faces, blue
and red for boys, funky pinks and mint for little
girls. No one rattles the maracas in the costume
aisle. The two night managers drink sweet tea
and Crown from a cooler in the back. Piñatas
hang from the ceiling as if martyred—they will
bleed for you if you show them enough love. Continue reading “Jonathan Owen May, Spring•Summer 2017”