Читать книгу Dusk & Dust - Esteban Rodríguez - Страница 13

FAIR

And as March thaws the last of winter’s

vagrant winds, dusk smears what’s left of itself

across the fair’s parking lot, that shadowed grid

of cars and trucks where I watch the Ferris wheel

spin against a pink and purple sky, seep over

the silhouettes of mini-roller coasters, tattered tents,

a rusted stadium where the crowd cheers for one

fallen cowboy after the next. Regardless of the season,

no amount of change can erase the scent of cattle shit,

or the prized array of fragrances that linger near

the ticket booths, where I fall in line, accept

this smell everyone ahead of me accepts; a trade-off

for a chance at fun, or what fun can be had

from ping pong balls, fishbowls, dull darts,

balloons, rubber duck ponds, water guns, rope ladders,

or the Ring the Bell crowded with boys eager

to swing its chained mallet through the air.

As I walk past them – note their willingness

to be quantified by the height their light reaches –

the carnies, with their greased and tobacco-stained

faces, holler for my attention, as if they can sense

the same need for overcompensation; their voices

shrieking with the promise of rewards. And yet,

because another year has passed since impulse

led me in their direction, I settle for the consolation

of knowing that even the simplest things are rigged,

that as the bright myriad of games dilate into a panorama,

and the evening spreads like a pinned moth across

the lot, I must push my way deeper through the fair,

until, like a segue meant to expose the villain

within ourselves, I find myself inside a house

of mirrors, a puzzle of convex and concave curves

distorting me into shapes I’ve never felt, into anatomies

rearranged with anorexia, elephantiasis, or reflections

of my endless face as it slowly melts, swells

into whatever figure the glass wants me to be,

or that I’ll continue projecting onto myself

even when I emerge from its illusion,

and rechristen my senses to the funnel cake

and cotton candy air, to the polka-steps

and accordions, and to the deep-fried moon