Mesmerized by the silver clipper
and certain sound, we bend to the task.
The dimples have disappeared
from her knuckles, but her fingertips are still
the size of Navy beans. Still, I can say “pinky”
and “pointer” without fear of embarrassing her.
But soon these fingers will write her name, cut
tomatoes, walk up the back of a boy’s
neck. These hands will wave directions
in the air, dismiss and beckon.
I clip just the tiniest succession of luminous
ribbons and groan like a Jewish Samurai
in close battle with guilt and tradition,
taking much longer
than her patience should last.
But she turns her face towards my face
and laughs, as though this were funny,
as though there’s nothing sillier
than the prospect of being hurt.
Another Circus
When I finally decided to go
it was the last day, and it was late.
The tents lay flat as sand dollars,
the elephants, turned to evening labor,
swung poles, hauled carts
with stone‑age wheels.
I feared to see how the labors
of the others ‑‑ the python,
the ostrich ‑‑ would be divided.
But to think, these animals
lived honest lives between the colors …
Still, the smell of popcorn,
the spun sweetness of cotton candy
tinted the air slightly above
the fallen circus.
I stepped over fat, retreating cables
and came to the place
where miniature ponies had borne children
over the circles of childhood.
I stood for a moment in the center
and saw a falling star
draw its polished nail
across the long night.
This was another circus, far removed
from the real, the remembered, the desired.
The last generator shut down.
The boxed lion roared.