It’s the fragrance of peanut shells that draws him in,
the smell of horsewhipped joy in such a crowd.
Maybe I can follow him as he disappears around
the tent flap, maybe I can see his shadowless legs
as he stands outside the center ring, considering
the caged tigers, acrobatic clowns, death-defying
women in spangled costumes who climb footholds
to the high wire. Here’s what he did for me:
he carried me to my bed when I begged him,
lowered me gently to the pillow, or, later,
threw me down like a bag of old clothes
that needed to be washed clean.
His love for me was olive-colored, dirt mixed with tears,
so it’s a surprise to find him beneath the big top,
his hand on a rope that coils to the highest platform,
ready to head for the trapeze, to reel out into space,
all those faces below turned up to him,
the ripe fruit of the living.
