In her body—
Each night a secret circus.
The roaring tiger wears her pink tutu,
reaching her arms fiercely out in front of her
revealing her nail polished claws,
doing precisely and perversely
as she was trained.
Tiny field mice carrying striped flags,
parade across the tender floor.
Skinny women in ruffled leotards
soar through the air on the flying trapeze.
The bearded lady makes a 3 minute appearance
wearing her red dress and
smoking the last centimeters of a cigarette.
Doped up elephants saunter their heavy bodies
around in circles,
trapped in hell and soulless.
After the show, the tiger declines requests for interviews.
Tickets to this show
are sold on the black market
by shady business men in back alleys.
After the show, minimum wage workers sweep
the littered aisles
enough to hide the filth ̶
sliding empty containers and spilled things
into dark invisible crevices.
Then morning comes again,
the girl awakens,
all three eyes wide open.
Pink princesses and sequined wands
make material things feel more real
Soft stuffed animals with loose joints
paw the surface of her skin,
some kind of strange reassurance.
Jennifer Lothrigel is a poet and artist residing in the San Francisco Bay area. Her work has been published in Trivia - Voices of Feminism, Narrative Northeast, Poetry Quarterly, Firefly Magazine, Cordella Magazine, We’ Moon and elsewhere.
Tulips lift toward the sun
not as lips parting,
but cycloptic eyes, self-blinding
to defy dozens of faces
that peer directly inside,
The news networks blink in code,
send out psychic flare guns.
“Help. I’m an illusion.”
I accidently knocked over
the Singer sewing machine,
an old black metal one I found
in a junk store.
The waves are shaped by sirens
and the sea walls built to echo
Bamboo and rain drum the time I was a child and my mother was mapping the neighborhood dynasty with her sister Corrine. For years they plotted to overthrow the geriatric mindset of their mother who kneaded Judaism into me and my sister’s Play-Doh.
Her chameleon eye in the moon
like a crater, and hair falling in meteors
over bare shoulders.
Forgetting how to swim
was like losing language,
a silencing of the limbs
that once knew fluid
like the vein of a wrist,
the curve of an eyelash
Madness is not the only art that consumes.
In our mind, rooms, and in them the scuff
of footsteps and faces veiled in tulle.
Once I was immortal,
condemned to endless mornings,
empty of the knowledge
of manmade rituals.
my parents have a joint facebook account bc my mom found out my dad was messaging someone name TexasTitties2006 in an online poker game and she lost. her. goddamn. mind and threw the tv down the stairs.