To the Ringmaster — Split Lip Magazine

You only saw the half of it. You can only see so much in that white baptism of light. You, centered in the theater. The audience: rows of heads, knuckles in the dark. You saw children waving neon toys, shooting glow to the domed roof. Maybe you noticed the men on stilts with buckets of popcorn hanging from their necks.

You were too close to the show. Too close to grass-laced clumps of elephant shit. You couldn’t smell the grease and burnt sugar of concession. The cheap foundation my mama put on her eye. Lipstick smeared to hide the busted shade of beetroot. I cannot blame you, even if your voice sounds like God. You did not collect the tickets at the door. Even if you did, you would not know how we got in for free.

In the black of things, this is what you missed: Daddy cymbal-clapping palms on the armrest, asking for space. My brothers and I waiting for the helmeted man to stuff the whole of his self deep in the cannon. My mama, wife-eyed at jeweled women and their air tricks, how they floated easy as cottonwood seed. You missed our performance—how we pretended to love your tightrope circus. We were there, the whole family, hungry and angry at clowns.

Monica Brashears (@magnoliasnmud) is an MFA student at Syracuse University. She writes about the Black Appalachian experience, good food, and ghosts. She has recently finished her first novel. Some of Monica’s favorite things are as follows: fresh popcorn, full moons, and vanilla perfume.