| Poetry |
Ring Master
The corpse-painted cheek
of the ring-master
says it all,
flaking in soft scabs
from just beneath his
squint red eye,
like frail leaves from a
cabbage head once rot
has set in.
When he tries a smile
the gorges of his face
push deeper
inviting you in,
like a modern-day
Hannibal
who just can’t resist
that next descent in
to darkness,
braving exhaustion,
white-out, a corpse paint
avalanche.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!”
He calls, and on come
the elephants.
by Steve Nash
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