Baby lemons dance at the circus. They make juice.

for Jess Rowan (I'm not entirely sure dear. I blame beer for this poem)

Our vaginas are sitting
by the fire
hugging giant pandas
and drinking lemonade

Your goat humped my llama
and I am perturbed by this
do not kill anyone
do not prop upon corn
and tiny fruit baskets
do you know of anyone
that is collapsing?
a roll of duck tape,
a smile,
a mixed set of words
left at the farm
and the jars, squishy, left
on the table
These are good words,
these are good
sneezes *wink*
Vaginas occurring countless times
making tapestries out of
and then dropping the lemon
awkward
and beautiful
they are not small
and everyone important
knows it