Since you ask, love, that’s not a question.
Love isn’t haggled at a flea market like a brass lamp.
You can’t money me for love like a honey dipped coat.
Love isn’t hanging out festively on East Tenth Street
When the mood is wrecked by bygones
And has-beens. What isn’t love is between the sheets
Of rain without definition of weather. Love isn’t
Your touchdowns, your rice and beans, your spoils of war.
Love isn’t your west side story. Love isn’t love when the bottle
Is empty but nobody’s drunk. Yet. Because
What isn’t love is nobody’s red sock
And somebody’s black boot. What isn’t love is
Everyone’s pair of glasses that ruins the view.
What isn’t love is when the lettuce rots
Because someone forgot to check the last sale date.
Love isn’t love when the number’s been blocked.
What isn’t love, you ask? That’s not a question.
Love isn’t love when the horn sounds
But the brakes forget to stop. What isn’t love
Is because what isn’t love is not.
Jennifer Juneau is a 2025 Acker Award recipient for poetry. She is the author of the novel ÜberChef USA (Spork Press 2019) the full-length poetry collection More Than Moon, (Is a Rose Press 2020). Her short fiction collection Maze was published in September 2024 by Roadside Press, and her second full-length poetry collection is forthcoming by Pink Trees Press. Magazine publications include Cimarron Review, Cincinnati Review, Columbia Journal, Rattle, Seattle Review, and others. She lives and writes in New York City.
Image: “Charcoal Heart” from Nicole Monroe
Pine Hills Review 