the burlesque poetess(s)

“a nunnery crashed my circus” 4/2010 v.

this was kindly published in its first form in Magpie Magazine, but i couldn’t help ceaselessly adding/revising/continuing the adventure for my zinelet project, niblet: circus verse last weekend. whoops? hoozah!

(found Les Chauds Lapins who i am listening to now while searching for appro’ accompanying imagery. banjo-leles!? &yes, i need to illustrate my poems myself, those are en route)

“a nunnery crashed my circus”

I lend my darker habit(s) to Salome
(sweet girl needs an 8th veil!)
for goodness’s sake. Rouge removes
easily enough with holy water.

Polish the piano till gilt cherubs burn,
lend St. Peter to tune honky tonk into hymnal,
take communicable recyclables from the lips
drinking full-bodied fruit punch in front.

Whisper protection for Dan, the trainer.
Sprinkle sawdust, caramels in the lion’s cage,
hold fast dangerous mouths that might find fault
(and howl sharply, jagged derision).

The conjoined mime-twins curs-ed
with a permanent frog of the throat-
with my staff performing
miracles in one tent I can pray

inside the other, borrow honey
from the milky albino’s trailer.
Serve solemn tea in the once-gypsy
wagon made cave-like with coal

discarded canvas. Knitted kettle-cozy
emblazoned with the flaming heart
for emphasis- votive candles
evocative of a cathedral, no bordello!

Bless us captain, lamb bones buried
near fair grounds, I found these sweet freaks
searching for that blue-blood soul
if he’d ever make port, like a proper sailor…

Read the Book of Philemon
to the masses eating fried dough
in the silence of powdered sugar prayer.
I’ll starch my wimple with petticoats.

Silence petty arguments about rope
and wives with calming song, Ecclesiastes, a “please”
is all it takes. Coil beads inside pocket,
fetch thimble and mend the main tent

—horsehair, red silk.
Collect coins, stamp small hands
allow entry into this place of light.