Art de Cirque

Sunday, October 24, 2021

A chill wraps itself around my neckand needles make a knot inside my right fist.The right joint always raised red flags,even when I chose to chalk it up to acidic butterflies,especially on the nights when you drifted to my passenger seatand coughed out smoke shows.
My teeth chatter.knocked out by your ice-cold veins.I spit into my palmand see a necklace of years passed;my string has always been thinand your edges always sharp.
You rattle this earth and make walking off its rimart de cirque.Tickets are sold and crowds of our classmates fill your stadium.I try to shred the stubs,but you pay off the operator of my dreamland.Your hair bleeds into midnight;the rush of a pen leaking.No one’s dam strong enough to stop the overflow.You catch audience members’ howls in the dead center of your hand.Their eyes look away in shamewhen they realize cigarette holes are burnt into their drivers' seats as well.Silence washes your stage cleanas if you were the one who knew how to clean up a scene.End show.Cue guilty applause.
Behind the curtains made of casts you thought you had removed,I hear broken bones yelp.
This piece was published in Issue 5 of Horse Egg Literary.

Post a Comment

© Kelli Lage. Design by FCD.