Juanita’s getting tired of the late days
and short nights. She knows better
than to trust the sky to tell her the way
to the bottom of the sea -- understands
an angel needs cold wings in order to fly.
I like wide open spaces, she says, enough
room to make the really big mistakes.
Her braid falls over one eye, she’s a punk
rock Veronica Lake pulling me across
the room with a promise -- she whispers
two small lies and I thank gravity
for dragging me down from the mountain.
