--SURE. WHATEVER YOU SAY IT WAS.
The Night Circus
This clown may not be a clown at all.
He has a broken window mouth. Chunks of glass for teeth. Steaming brand for a tongue. Manacle hands.
His too big shoes slap the bedroom floor. The air swells wide then small, ripe and bruised.
If I scream it will boomerang back. If I scream the ether will eat it. If I scream nothing will stay nothing.
The clown’s eyes are crushed ice, cherry-colored snow cones leaking at the corners, gashing rivulets down his face, through his caked-on makeup. His panting is coarse and prickly.
At the end of the mattress, he performs what he always claims is foreplay, juggling a set of butcher knives, with a stare fixed tight on me.
The moon through the window blinks across each flung blade, like flashing sparks or cyphers, while sweat runs away from me, my pulse a coward and deserter.
Before the clown can begin his next trick, I pluck a knife from the air, watch the circus tent collapse, the elephants escaping together, one by one, trunk to tail, trunk to tail.