Tipton Poetry Journal – Summer 2021
Mexican Carnival David Melville Henpecked and paddy whacked, I sit boot shod on the Octopus, a tentacled ferris wheel that spins notions from noggins, whirling – bumblefooted hit of a bongwater dream. Children scream. The car tips. We flip. Grease drips down the egg-shaped sides of this inverted submarine. Dangling restrained by the rusted bar, suddenly she is mine again – fingers curled in my palm like the January nights she’d slipped against my chest and we were two cupped Cs. Whipsawed upright I brace. Spinning, thrown flat against the cage, I choke back vertigo’s aftertaste as grill slats press diamonds in my cheek like the one I’d hoped would dot her knuckle. The seat spins, then tips. Palms grip the cold bar, frantic to quiet metallic rattle. Strung lights leave neon slurry, red bulbs lace the Nayarit night. Gravity rights. We pause above hawker’s cries, floating over barker stalls filled with
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