The Moya View

Circuses Go Round and Round

On days when the girls were circuses
their mother would parade them in the
dusky living room where the overhead spots
would highlight each one in their own
three ring aura, The Entrance of the Gladiators
stuck on repeat on the old phonograph,
brass and woodwinds bouncing lithely
off their bodies and trumpeting off the walls,
the humid Florida air swirling around the
ceiling fan- a cotton candy glaze under a
spun glass moon.

In their tutus they imagined doing
plies and arabesques on the backs
of circling white stallions, their
mother choreographing their movement
with clapping hands, low murmurings
to throw their bodies back, keep
their spines a straight line, urging them
to spring back up after each fall- “fly,
fly, fly, my darlings, you must fly!”

Again, again they fell, got back up,
flew even after their father
kicked them and their mother
enough into the air that they hit the
earth hard, enough to feel the forever
rising bruise of death tug them up
like a balloon tied to their wrists,
tossed them out into the dirty circle
under the jaundice streetlights
because they dared to dream
things beyond his empty knowing.

They got back up and flew away, far
away enough to forget his name—
far away enough until their hearts almost
stopped breaking, not stopping until they
reached California, until one distant day
to come, in a green hospital room, they
danced around their mother once again.





2 responses to “Circuses Go Round and Round”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    I think it’s me but I am confused plus the word where in the first ljne threw me off.


    Corrected that typo.

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