A Limp

Grey Wolfe LaJoie

In a moment the little boy
will be surprised by the pop
of the big black balloon.
Hanging from his lips, a limp
flower, which he hands you
without hands.
There are bodies in the air
at all hours of the earth, but
you seem to be sinking into
your dainty dirty garden bed.

How carefully we spin
the bottle, and how soft
it sounds as its wet lips
whistle in motion.

GREY WOLFE LAJOIE is a Creative Writing undergraduate at UNC-Asheville. He is the senior poetry editor at The Rhapsodist Literature and Arts Journal, and his work can be found in his chapbook A Commando in Floral Remembers His Mother, and in the anthology Bits of Sugar and Other Stories, available through Grateful Steps. In his free time, he tries to remember what he used to do when he had free time.