A Jar of Clowns
Like the snakes at the museum with their yellowing scales
and pale, clouded eyes, my clowns are jammed in the jar
until no space remains for humor. Only a groan or two escapes,
the wheeze of tortured breath. My face presses, with theirs,
against the glass, three-quarters of the way to the bottom.
The pressure blanches my skin white and bloodless; it curves,
following the bend of glass. Bruises blossom at the contact
points. A hint of jelly clings to the jar by my tongue, apricot
maybe. Or peach. Not enough flavor remains to decipher
taste. The absence of laughter causes slow starvation,
a steady shrinking of the adipose of joy.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
This is my FIRST draft, it's likely I'll write more, and if so, I will post them ABOVE the 1st one so the newest is always at the top.