He, Jabiru, jabs her with his elbow

trying to quiet the young girl’s nonsense.

She jabbers incessant jabberwocky.

One minute the jabiru

is resting in the jaborandi grove

wearing jacinth robes while Jack and his jackal

lead a jackass with a jackdaw astride-

the next minute she cranks

the jack-in-the-box holding a jackknife,

poised and ready to slit the clowns

throat, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern

all the time ranting like a Jacobin.

He is worried that her jactitation

may be jaded from the jaggery

she and her pet jaguarondi

lapped for an afternoon delight.

She is jailbait living in a jalopy.

She is in a jam between two jambs.

She toils as a janitor, speaks jargon,

smells of jasmine and glows like a jasper necklace.

Her skin is slightly jaundice like a watered down spicy mustard.

He knows she needs help.

He wonders if there exists Jaws of Life

big and strong enough to

pry her from Jekyll and Hyde.

He jettisons his jewels

buys a Jew’s-harp

jibes his life, jigs a jitterbug

attempts to rid her of the jive

that joggles her mind.

Joie de vivre drives her to join

in the jollity, jolting her out

of the journey that has plagued

her since some jowly bastard

squashed joy as he joy rode

her tiny body.