We pass a huge tent with turrets
on our way to grandma’s house.
There is no wolf, here, no cape or hood.
Only ornate horses, beery clowns, happy
family acrobats, vendors of ferocity.
I tell my children: the circus has three rings.
The only parents who told their kids anything,
when I was growing up, were groovy.
They were pals, confidantes.
They did not embarrass their children,
as is a parent’s obligation.
I want my children to tell me everything.
My hearing is considerably better than my husband’s:
he’s troubled by ambient noise.
I hear the air move: the particles chatting.
I hear the chair say to the table: what’s new?
The plaid says to the stripe: I am the pattern here.
A shoelace yearning to be tied.
The little fricatives at the end of sentences.
Unintended sighs.
Please don’t confuse hearing with listening.
I did not say: I am a good listener.
These are entirely different skill-sets,
as the marketing geniuses say.
I can spell “Mississippi” very quickly,
do a time-step, thumb wrestle.
Sing “Surrey with the fringe on top” and
question
my faith in the decency of human nature
both at the same time.
I can drive with my knees, leaving my hands
free to gesture at neighboring vehicles.
When the right-hand mirror talks to the distance, it says:
I know you are closer than you look.
The distance is taciturn.
Its tactic: emotional blackmail.
The silent treatment.
There’s salt back there.
In 1963, my Uncle Denny heard a young
Barbra Streisand audition in a club in downtown Detroit.
You knew she was a star. A star,
he said.
I was entranced by the mobile, pictures
of ducks that swayed above my head.
I was not a child of the ‘60s
but a child in the ‘60s.
Prepositions make all the difference.
As does “this” versus “that.”
As do articles: “A” versus “the.”
The general versus the particular.
The random versus the chosen.
A clown is scary. The clown is scary.
We sit in the dark to watch the spectacle.
We sit in the dark. We think about doing our taxes.
The shapes and lights travel across our line
of vision, after the source is gone.
It’s an optical trick, but a good one.
I hate magicians. And like all sensible people, mimes.
In a brief, desperate time, I dated
a professional funnyman.
A clown, of sorts.
My relationship with humor has become quite strained.
I can barely stand wit.
Even charm is suspect, if it sneaks up on you.
I don’t carry mace but once I did in a dream.
Of course, my attacker turned it on me
and I woke up failing to see.
I woke myself up by screaming.
If you were that funny, they used to call you
a “scream.”
My daughter woke up, screaming.
Children are born mimics.
They can build a wall with their hands
without any bricks, and almost lose control
of a balloon, and find chewing gum on their heels
with expressions too big for their faces.
When they call your husband’s name, you hear
the shrillness
in your own voice.