The radio plays thirteen Mexican angels in
The valley of the sun and she is not wearing
A blindfold. Her face feels naked, not nude.
She’s strapped to the spinning target, but it’s
His wife and not him whose hands blossom
With a bouquet of throwing knives and looking
At her with jealous eyes. Like daggers, she thinks.
She feels like wet silk that had been pulled
Too taut and might rip at any moment.
As she spins the sequins on her limbs sparkle
The ruby in her navel feels like a bulls-eye.
She wakes in her caravan and gets dressed in a
Hurry, packing her bag and departs without leaving
A goodbye note. In her next job she will be an
Aerialist or be fired from a cannon. Something safe.
Bill Lewis
.