print previewback STEVE SCAFIDI
The Circus
He wasn’t an artist
of the trapeze
he was the catcher
hanging upside down
in the Illinois breeze
all one long summer
in the first months
of his freedom
swinging up above
the raggedy crowds
humming to himself
as the flying beautiful
knots of women
tumbled toward him
like punches in midair.
His long arms, out-
stretched, comforted
the ladies rolling
in the sky. He wore
the red and white
striped tights. He was
clean-shaven smooth
as a seal. In the caravan
of wagons he slept
in the last—next to
a book of English law,
a fiddle he was given
and never played and
the sister of the fire-
eater whose name was
something hidden and
far away. At night
rolling softly over him
she called him something
in Chinese that sounded
like what a cardinal
calls her mate falling
softly through the trees.
Aug. 1831