When I Died

When I died, my body was taken to the amusement park and loaded onto the ferris wheel.

I rose into the starry night-face of God

As if I were a child

Needing a goodnight kiss.



When I died, the carnies kindly took me in--

We would sit, after-hours, holding cotton candy sideways like chicken legs, our faces pink.

I asked,

Where is the after-life?

They told me, Noob,

This is it.



When I died, I left the heavy wet worsted of my flesh behind,

And found I could dance as I had always dreamt of doing.

If I could think it, I could do it,

My perfect expressions so beautiful that my friend the strongman was left in tears watching me.

With his truck tire sized hands, he would pluck me from the rivers flowing down his cheeks

And lift me above his head,

Like a happy puppy.



When I died, I looked back at my life and I said,

What a clusterfuck.

What a smoking pile-up.

At the circus, there are mirrors--I can plunge inside them and become short or tall, wide as the midway or as slender as the chances we'll still be here in the morning.



When I died, I ran away and joined the circus.

I take tickets, I do the books, I am a listening ear for Dog-boy and Gator-girl.

Because I am a wisp, a breath, a purple feather falling from an aerialist's costume,

I may marry my strongman.

At the very least, I will kiss him to start his heart,

And let him carry me around like a little five-pound barbell.

Secure within his meaty mitt,

I will be happy, like some sort of love-luggage;

In the mornings I will wax his mustache and, with the smile I reserve for him, I will call him handsome, and my hero.



It will not be life. Too late for that;

But it will be better than anything I have known 'til now.
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