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Leigh Anne Hornfeldt lives in Kentucky with her husband and three young sons. Her poems have appeared in Chronogram, Untitled Country Review, Soundzine, Plain Spoke, and are forthcoming in Short, Fast, and Deadly, and Foundling Review. She neglects a humorous blog which can be found here.
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The Ferris Wheel
By Leigh Anne Hornfeldt
November 7, 2010
for B.
For me, it starts
bent-backed and kneeling low.
Impatiently I make the knots.
You sit high on the bench, look down.
When else were we so different?
Maybe that's how it starts for you,
with a feeling of not knowing me
or caring to know me.
Or maybe it's blue cotton candy on a stick
you see first or grey bunnies sagging
in the humidity. How much you wanted one
which would have been fine
except I said we already had too many
animals littering cages.
We only had one.
However it does start for you
(I hope it's with the cotton candy you did get)
I know it ends for us both with a Ferris wheel,
though not a Ferris wheel
exactly: Astro Wheel, Space Wheel, dinosaur
from the sixties with newly painted impossible arms.
Did you know I asked you to ride
because I had shot guns with your brother,
because I held his hand in the horror of the funhouse?
For six years you were the quiet mouse
in my wall. We waved to your father
and two small brothers. We sank
into the empty box.
We moved and green dropped
away slowly then quickly.
Quickly.
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