Circus rides were sunk
in our neighborhood lake
where we used to feed sunnies.
We rolled up bread between our
fingers and dropped them off the dock.
And I wondered
if I would ever watch the bread
sink down past a ferris wheel
where bony-handed kids
still clutched their carts harnesses.
And now, I think back
to all my dreams and how I feared
the rusted unknowns under the lily pads.
And now, I think back
to my fear that a bony hand would
squeezes my ankles when I swim.
And Bones would want to play,
and I feared that I would be held under
the waves until I sway, sway, sway.
No more will I see
the sun tickle the sky
like silk ferns.
No more will I stroll
to get ice cream at that shop
or maybe someplace new.
And now, I think about
my nine to five with relief
and fear.
I am safe and warm
but is this just Bones' way
of holding me until I sway?
YOU ARE READING
The Circus
PoetryA raw, open look into a reoccurring nightmare that I had during my childhood, and how it has changed and resurfaced as an adult.
