by Ginny Wiehardt

I would like to ask that everyone
from ’94 to ’98
retire their memories of me.
Like the time I ran off to become
a snake lady in the circus
and wound up shearing sheep
in fishnet hose and a leotard.
I never got the hang of success,
so I must get the trick of living well.
Does grace come of forgiveness,
or the other way around?

Fortune tellers have lost their appeal:
the important questions
swat flies in their sleep.
The only safe bet is that
we’ll get there eventually.
The time for mad girlfriends
in Spain has ended.
The day has grown quiet,
waking up to its meaning.
We forfeit our ability to disappear
for the certainty of being found, to sleep
curled up together like marmots.
To lick fingers that dropped
matches all the way down.

*Photo courtesy Zirkus.