Mom’s first word was the cannonball

she became. Shot out of moving cars.

Soon she’d chanted herself deaf. Picked up

ring toss, porcelain plates at our open mouths.

Sister was a natural, like some Roman gladiator.

On stage she was herself, and all acrobatic.

Clinical. Disinterested. Deserving of better pay.

Fed up with fire-breath and nets.

Descendant of an amnesiac of a juggler,

six scars on my skull mark my Father’s

missing hands. A Bozo bloodline.

Sideshow freak’s genes.

Four strangers and our sleight of palms.

Parlor games and card tricks. Kitchen filled

with featured players and four empty seats.

A bang, and some smoke, then us, out of sight.

The vanishing act isn’t always about hiding.

Sometimes you must make the crowd disappear.