When I eventually tricked you into attending
my two-man circus I hadn’t thought you’d keep
there long. Maybe I could sell you
on an act or two—unfasten the rotten teeth
from my head and screw them back in a socket,
blindfolded. I had hoped the surprise would make
you take your shirt off. It didn’t, my dear, you even sat still as my father
continued the show—tattooing our family name onto
your arm. He was dressed as El Silbón, exactly like his father,
and grinned when he offered you a shot from his pony’s mouth.
When you said no the whole tent caved in, trapping you
until the fire department came. They cut
a meticulous hole. Only for you. But you drew away
from the first ray which shot through, not as compelling
as it once had been bright across your tidy childhood
floor. Instead you took the sunken canvas from my shoulders
and by took I mean crammed it down your throat
until there was nothing left but sky. Sacrificial as any
magic trick. Instead you took on the puma, you took on
the whip, you took on every sharp part and let them dull.