Mama with your fancy heart
full of wedding rings,
let go of them red balloons
and take me to the circus.
I want to watch a fantasy be
honest about itself.
Imagine that tightrope,
perfect under paid feet instead of
trembling in your poor throat,
forever calling across the water
to a ship not coming in.
Mama I am tired of this dirty dock,
tired of the way you say the fish
won’t smell tomorrow but every day
is the same, salt-burning sun
driving your welcome balloons
a little lower, that ship never
coming any closer and fish
one after the other lain
gutted on the wood to stink
like they have to, because that
is what men do to fish; make them stink.
At the circus I hear they have a silk tent
wide enough for everyone.
Forget your diet, let me buy you one of those
popcorns big as your head.
We’ll throw some at the lions
to prove we aren’t scared.
Laugh with me, Mama,
at the clowns and tumblers falling
head over heals for their buck.
Better at them than us, still waiting
for fish to stop stinking in the sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment