Romantic Circus Songs

1. Femme de Vol

If I tell you anything
I will tell you of
the crushed peanut shells, popcorn,
the gummy pull of taffy.
How the elephants mourn for one another
with each turn around the ring.
How peacocks flounce,
draping fluorescent eyes of God along the muddy floor.

I tell you this because I am
Femme de Vol, Woman of Flight,
soaring from one metal rod to another.
All your heads turn up at me,
eyes watery from floating dust.

There is trouble,
désordre, my darlings.
With so many sticky-fingered children
staring with their eyes wide as Christmas morning,
we begin to feel invincible, almost magique.

But I’ve seen the magician at the end of the day.
I know his tricks and trades. If at night when he enters my trailer
and pulls scarves out of my corset,
sableux, bleu, vermilion,
I close my eyes and pretend we are enchanted,
listening to the songs of crickets.

But I am not his audience. He is no man I have not had before.
Cape-less, his shoulders sag like any man's.

There is a cloud over the big top, mon petite.
The children don’t see it; their eyes wander
through the glitter and smoke, relying
on mirrors to tell them who they are.

I’ve looked into such mirrors; they have
spoken to me in backward English:
Get out…l'évasion

Tonight, I hear the lions pace,
the chickens stir in their pens.
Women who have bent into the number 3 for a pence
find night the easiest time to release themselves
and so they lie,
lax, in their trailers like spilt milk.

2. Equilibre

Come, mon cher, you cannot afford
the five francs for the big tent.
Roam the Midway – sideshows and menagerie
acts that whistle at you from the main road.

Now look: to your left is Le Géant Laid, the Ugly Giant,
who lifts Albertine and Carlotta onto his two
brawny biceps as they show off their legs,
one long cigarette stick at a time.

Watch the patrons, these stuffy women,
how they ignore his face,
longing after the giant’s robust arms
and his muscular legs.

How they shrink their husbands – limp
gangly men with overcoats and tweed hats –
out of their minds, but then look
away, ashamed. I love such shame.

How détestable he is,
the men say, lusting after the tall and gallant ladies.
Carlota and Albertine’s brown teeth peer out
of their lipstick-drenched lips.
The Ugly Giant, once he finds his bearings,

does not move.
And there they stand,
in wind and rain,
their legs barely shaking
in the spotlight of the moon.

3. Constant Crying Man

And now you are my listener,
my auditeur, aren’t you?
You are my captive audience. Wouldn’t
Domino, the ring-master, be proud
of me now. You like what you see, eh? These
blue eyes of mine, the light that can balance teacups?
Now I’ve got you.

There is another kind of character, my darlings.
It is a man who paces, who walks the Midway
and even after the show is over
still paces. Domino calls us over and we watch
as the man walks in the rain and cries.

I tell you the tears he sheds have been felt by us all,
but we are so used to them now.
We have a show to do.

But this man, usually wrapped in a heavy
cloak, cries as he sees a home for himself.
Perhaps his wife no longer loves him.
Perhaps he has a hump and the world does not
accept him. Here he comes, each night, longing
to be one of us. Talking to the elephants,
chatting with Greta the Mermaid lying in the tank
down the aisle. She tilts her head and smiles,
not understanding the French he speaks.

But, mon enfant, you do not want to be here.
You do not want to be one of us, to be
alive only when wearing the make-up thick as
pancake batter, alive only when the spotlight
shines on your head. These are temporary halos.

And this is why I warn you, this is what I would say
if I could climb in childrens’ windows like Peter Pan,
if you would listen to the woman in red, fake diamonds,
I would say

go back. We don’t want you crying here. There are
enough tears falling from the big top
as it is.

11/25/2004

Author's Note: My real break-out poem, my new signature poem, the title of my first book of poetry.

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky