The circus comes to town because it’s lost. When the raven croaks my name—Dov, Dov—I have just drunk the last drop from my thermos and am staring at my reflection in the mug’s glossy black plastic. I can make out the sunlit tip of my nose like a shark’s fin rising from the murk. Strike any key and continue, I tell the oaks playing percussion with their acorns. Blood blossoms on my arm when I crush a mosquito. The circus comes to town because we’ve all seen too much blood: in headlines and classrooms, in AI-generated images and looped videos. The circus tent keeps growing like a tumor. Political parties party in it. Who are the freaks and geeks now? The sun circles its tree like a chained dog and the tree in turn circles the sun, along with the rest of us, who are not privy to whatever might be happening underground. Especially since bulldozers invaded the cemeteries to dislodge all the names of the occupants. Which must be where the raven picked them up—shiny things. Dā’ūd, Dā’ūd, it calls. I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me. Like a lily among thorns.
Public-domain image by Linnea Mallette.
