Carnival Ride, In Our Own Words, 2010 (Print)
“Hi—My name is Martha” my cousin said
so sweetly southern-like to a carnie-boy running The Scrambler.
“Would you mind letting me and my cousins ride this ride
even though we’ve run out of tickets?”
Martha’s almost grown lean over the ride’s iron gate,
the soft breeze from her fluttering lashes and
the gently lulling country drawl worked on him.
So charmed was he—he didn’t reply. We walked past
the gate like three green-blue peacocks and climbed into
the red-white benched seat smallest to large. Laughing; feeling so fine.
He walked by—click click clank, click click clank—pushing
the bars down tight on our thighs. Our bench swayed
as the ride begun and we lurched like blown bluebonnets.
I closed my eyes; letting the wind peel them back open.