Juice Box Girl

(After Midnight Moments)

By Michael Lee Johnson

I’m a juice box girl,

squeeze me, play me

like an accordion,

box-shaped, but gagged edges.

Breathe me inside out,

I’m nude, fruity, fractured,

strawberry melon,

nightshade wine.

Chicago, 3:00 a.m.

somewhere stranded

someone’s balcony

memories undefined,

you will find me there

stretched naked, doing

the Electric Slide,

taking morning selfies

upward morning into the sun

then in shutters

closeout pictures

Chiquita bananas, 

those Greek lovers

running late,

Little Village, Greektown

so many men’s night faces fading out.

Wash cleanse in me.

I’m no Sylvia Plath

in an oven image of death

I resuscitate; I’m still alive.