The big cat act was over, and The Great Wallendas were getting ready to workon the high wire. Not yet Arthur Konyot and his Hungarian Riders. Not yetLudwig Jacob emerging from the cramped quarters of his clown car. And let’ssay you and I have just wandered in from the midway with a red balloon,a monkey sewn from rabbit fur. Let’s say the circus has arrived a day latefrom Providence, the big top coated in paraffin wax to keep out the rain.Not yet the cigarette dropped outside the men’s toilets, or the match struckby a razorback livid over late pay, or the schizophrenic who would confesslater to setting the blaze at the behest of a ghost in a headdress. Not yetthe stench of burning flesh in this, another century of needless…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2024