This one is the most challenging I've tried in ages, and it's nowhere near done. CRITIQUES WELCOME.
Belief
First, all belief is paradise. So pliable a medium. A time not very long.
“Monday” by Lisa Robertson
Five days I sat on the ground
in the Carnival Man’s booth. Such
delicacy bloomed from his mouth,
his hands, from fire, from thin
rods of glass. I watched him make
ponies and cats, spotted giraffes,
ballerinas with pink slippers.
He spoke to me in a language
I did not know, but understood:
caballo, gato, jirafa, bailarin.
He sold them. But at the end
of each day, there was one for me.
For my attention. For my desire.
Fragile treasures, too ornate
for beauty, but pleasing to a child’s
eye. Time – dust and dusters, cats
and the curious, covetous hands
of children – made them dangerous.
The pony lost its head, the ballerina
cannot stand. Mended and broken
and mended again, sharp-edged
and enticing, too pretty for boisterous
life, unbalanced, they lean against
the back of the antique china cabinet.
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