My Life in the Circus

My Life in the Circus

Mom is a ballerina, spinning pirouettes in the kitchen
as she flings my grandmother’s porcelain plate high
into the air in a frustrated act of defiance. Her harsh
yells—frightening enough to scare Hannibal Lector—
resonate throughout the dingy kitchen with its peeling
peach paint and faded floral curtains which she abhors,
spaghetti noodles flying haphazardly like tentacles,
only to land onto sticky tile, promptly eaten by Jack,
our lion of a dog, who in actuality is more of a pussy
than a menacing beast, considering he spends his days
underneath the dining table, waiting like a living vacuum.

Dad breathes fire as his face flushes sepia—terra cotta
skin muddles a would-be-beet shade as he shakes the earth
with his distinctive steps; I can see the textured ceiling
of the basement shaking with each stride, the chipped knobs
of busted cabinet doors rattling as he rushes past the hole
of a room he calls an office, filled to the brim with
overflowing trash bags, weeks-old dishes crusted with
dried cereal milk and congealed condiments, bellowing
for me to unlock my bedroom door but alas, I am deaf ears
while I swing my legs out the window like a trapeze artist,
blocking out the sound of Dad’s fist splintering my door,
a quiet family of deer frozen in fascination while they watch
from the raspberry thicket overgrown with Queen Anne’s Lace.

I inhale the crisp autumn air, the scent of secret cigarettes
lingering on my tight, light green zip-up as I pull the hood
taught around my face, my sharp breaths struggling to keep
time with my feet, thankful for piles of leaves to distract
my mind, each crunch echoing throughout the ridge,
Jack’s monstrous barks fading behind me with the glinting sun.