ERICA
FIEDLER
ALL’S
FAIR AT THE FAIR
No, we were not inside lions,
lions were inside of me.
A nurse’s aide
found them yesterday—
she pointed to them with
a fountain pen.
She said it should
come as no surprise.
She said they live
off
where they tango and
toil in luminated tents;
where, after sundown,
fire walks water.
No, we were not
inside any of those lions, dear—
lions were inside me,
another and another.
I was but a tank.
Don’t look at me
that way;
we were never above
birds, even.
*
Just yesterday, a
house burned
down to the shape of an
opera glove—
two blocks from this
very chair.
The trees melted
around what was left
like mourning women in
long, wet dresses or
bent spiraled
staircases.