I am cash & carry, I need green.
Teller, what’s my tell?
I click heels. Pop gum. Twirl curls.
I am in line, out-of-line, here
for lock-box & barrel.
Look at the note I slipped you,
over cold marble counter:
I’m not going to be nice.
Don’t hollow the heart of my stack,
insert some flexible dye pack.
I’m my own incendiary device:
already red palms, caught rosy, open.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
See all items about Jennifer Jackson Berry