Circus Monkey

By: J.R. Harrington

Dark chocolate. Salted, plain, spiced. Dark impulses. Bitter, complex, tamed. The clean breaking noise of biting into a thin bar, a gentle crack. Fog in the inky night, the patter of rain eclipsed by steaming water running into the tub. Classical played loudly so it rattles the speakers, sharp vibrations, a high note on a pained piano.

The scent of roses, nostalgic. The water bleeds red to pink, the heat is sweltering against soft unprepared skin, melting stiff muscles. Stepping from knit robe to emptiness, broad open past, far distant future. Each ripple sent off by a pounding heart, pruned hands run along careless curvature. A painted thing, imperfections making chipped marble more faultless.

Porcelain cellist, tulle hardened, bow swooping, slim fingers pressing the notes into being. Marks from the gut indented into the player’s fingertips, scars, callous. The raw throat of a screaming singer, the burnt lungs of a searing smoker. Keen eyes glowing in dark halls, the lilting syllables of a man who wants it all.

Telling tales of each possibility. Two paths: one taken, one not. Branches split with each slight movement, a shifty insubstantial future. Unfocused eyes, staring through flickering flame, rich red melted wax laid like a grave. One fire, then two. Cards pulled, flick-swick. A question asked, another answered. Tools to be used, tinkling bells and swirling smoke. The sway of the pendulum, the glint of orange light on a point of brass. Yes, no, maybe, don’t know, find out alone.

Dented magnifying glass, chipped divot curving inward. Peering through at dried oils on wax paper, sketched ballpoint shading, rough-hewn spots on sanded and oiled wood-carvings. Searching for clues, discerning gaze. Bulbous eyes, swooping downturned waterline, never blinking quite enough. Widened pupils, hissing at the light, staying up all night.

Mishapen nails, sharp and squared at the edges. Relentlessly musing, praying for some connecting thread to show itself. Gold spun on a wheel. Chipped teeth, the hard skull of a beloved pet knocking against fatted chin, running to the bathroom sink in the night, telling no-one. It gives the impression of crookedness, the missing piece adding a strange tilted look.

Glowing keys, sticky-notes taped to the ivories. Missing the resistance of a real piano under tiny fingers, missing the annoyed snaps of mother, “cut that out or learn to play properly,” lessons unaffordable, silence costing nothing. Sat on linoleum, plucking guitar strings and begging quarters from houseguests.

Intent to grow up rebellious, rakish. Trained into the habit of running hands through hair, tossing it to be windswept, clawing along a sensitive scalp. Sprained ring finger building a wall from the snow, mittens discarded to mold the details better. Breathing through filters of unlit cigarette stubs for the taste, minty menthol placebo effect.

Intelligence rewarded, standards lowered. Sprawling rooms paced, Tchaikovsky on the CD player, gaming consoles turned up to ignore the mad Russian. Cannons in a concert hall, orchestra deafened, grand old overture hated most by its composer. The smell of fear in sticky sweat, acrid tang. Nipping thick haunches, clawing supple thighs.

The way a mind turns to love, love, love. Food and fear and sex and blood. Immature maturity, edging around softened fears, pushing through hardened years. Torn skin from dry lips in whitish strips. Peppermint salve rubbed in, oil slick tongue, wet stripe up slender neck to battle-ready jaw. Strawberries better inhaled than eaten, flirting with death. Tender kisses on each freckle of lithe shoulders, gnawing on the bone.

Shotgun, drifting smoke from mouth to mouth. Resuscitation, the thrill of proximity, temptation to close invasive eyes and let tongues do the talking, intermingling biomes, gaining immunities. Heat in ears and cheeks, burning backs of necks, swollen lips. Foods eaten together, rings stolen from stubby fingers. Compliments of beautiful hands, cool palms on warm ribs.

A child’s hands on a woman’s breast. Large legs around a small frame in the bath. Manicured hands threading through white-blonde hair, “Mine looked the same, at that age.” A game, a game, just a game, but keep those lips shut, put away the notepad. Quiet kid, keep quiet. Hot curling iron, burning the edge of a thumb. Dry hands, tugging while braiding.

“Pick a color,” in accented English, temperature changing hue-shifting polish. Showing off terrible things, stealing pretty rings. Gold, tiger’s eye. Setting fire to a lovely pink sweater, not speaking a word of why it needed burned. Tossing out old shorts, tears blinked away on long bus rides. Concerns left unmentioned, fears of complicity, complacency.

Pinching earlobes before having them pierced, shrieking as the skin’s shot-through. New diamond studs, taken out and never put back. Concave scar on one side, raised on the other. Tinnitus from an early age. Rifle hoisted against birdlike bones, shots roaring in baby ears, clay pigeon missed, squirrel dropping from a barren branch. Stewed slowly, served with lumpy biscuits. Listening to a friend say how disgusting it is, eating things like that—leisurely stewed rage, averted gaze, impoverished shame.

Shared room, two beds on opposite walls. Parisian bedspread, stripes, 2010’s teal. Don’t make it a big deal. Old country, Adele singalongs. Dirty blonde curls, heat-damaged. What color were those eyes? They change color, only barest slivers of memory remain, only the worst mementos play new refrains. A note found in a trashcan; one abuse stopped, the other never uncovered.

A name too common to avoid, a clenched stomach each time it’s heard. Fear of desire, stares in the fire. Christmas hats. Softball bats. Makeup caddies, orangey foundation. Heavy bowstring drawn back with scrawny arms, an arrow hissing through the air, slamming into the hill wide of the target. Broken arrowshaft twirled in circles through clumsy fingers, training patience.

Tight shirts, superior smirks. Girls who say cruel things in affable tones, girls with cancerous moles, middle school rumors. Lies just to touch. Thick bodyhair, locker room questions, snarky remarks regretted for years. The terror of a woman, the paranoia of a very sick man.

A mother’s promise is never kept, a mother’s pantry is never stocked. Walking through dizzying darkened vision, sitting through week-long hunger pains. Crawling on concrete to avoid stabbing pain in damaged feet. Girls who hate thick legs, girls whose fathers have never been kind. Weight gained after a month of near-starvation, wondering why one would choose that once the choice is taken away.

Manic disco meltdown, thinking of all the things to ever go wrong. Men imprisoned, taking jogs. Men hiding outside, avoiding knowing eyes, hating concerned women, hating unearned kindness. Deleted posts, lost history, no sign it ever happened but for that canvas pinned to the wall. Failing to learn the waltz, twirling and throwing weight to fall gracelessly. Thrifted tiaras set upon sweet-scented hair.

Socks sliding on outdated orange wood. Rippled texture in waxed gymnasium floors. The circus acrobats soaring high above on silks, the bright eyed woman swallowing sewing pins. Slow spin, carnival barker begging a young boy closer, young boy begging an irritated mother to play rigged games.

Lying facedown on cold fake hardwood, one arm pinned beneath a shuddering torso, clenching and jumping with sobs. Staying still for hours, begging to be found looking miserable, pleading silently to be comforted. Glass screen balanced on babyfat cheeks, waiting for a buzz that never comes. Staring, Alice in the looking glass, silver, aluminum backed. Thumb set on cheekbone, pressed under eye-socket, not daring to push in and pull it out. Wondering who that reflection is now, wondering who it will become.

A song drifting through the vents, standing on tip-toes to press an ear to hot metal. Hours spent in the bathroom, kissing the mirror to ignore darker impulses. Fake it till ya make it, forced self-love. Push, pull. Calling friends “babe,” begging sips of canned drinks. Climbing desert bluffs to smoke cigarettes between a boulder and a mountain-side, knowing those lips will never find purchase no matter how those deep earthen eyes wander.

Push, pull. Taking and giving, giving and taking. Putting in the miles, hauling heavy buckets of rotten eggs to the gully, dashing them against the rocks. Stealing from the tent at night, leaving marks on the world with black Sharpie. Faded rose-scented bookmark. Stealing ring after ring, unable to stop since the first. Stainless steel, slipping off slimming fingers. Another bath with another woman, not touching, pretending not to look.

Distant boys under the covers, baring skin first so as to not be reminded of that room, the pajamas donned when the woman wore nothing. Instinct so deep it’s pathological, not even a thought, just movement, preferring to be touched rather than touch. Intimacy is mutual, except that it never has been. The long-haired boy insisting on kissing in increasingly public places, unease, boundaries pushed and made to feel distinctly like choices. Complicit in the game.

Never crying in front of anyone but the radiant creature with strange eyes, shielded. Some kind of divinity, seeming so impassive, then so passionate—surely there’s no safety in that kind of unpredictability, but why would anyone want to see the next bruise coming? Teeth clashing, smooth lips, more than one go-round with pomegranate flavored beeswax. Loop, and loop, and loop-de-loop.

Animal crackers, before the shatter. When was the first crack? Why’s it so impossible to track? Blankets pinned over the windows, instability rubbing off. The chase, big brother screaming up the stairs, away from harsh hands. Vague remembrance of a doll, saying something smart and being rewarded, saying something smart and mother smiling, saying something smart and mother cooing “Isn’t it darling?” Doing tricks on command, mother, mother, poor little dog, say something smart so mommy can say “From the mouths of babes,” in that wry tone again.

Performing even in isolation, unnecessary flourish in every motion, each bound of fingers across the keyboard—concert musician, making music with only typed words, finding rhythm, losing dignity. Pirouette, pirouette, still trying to be oh-so-intellectual for mother.

When was the first crack? Next to the girl-woman, seeing fleas crawling on stick-legs in the car, screaming down the road. Before? Baby sister held tight, step-mother sobbing through the night. Earlier? Pretend, pretend, look tough, feel tough, maintain control. Breaking every little thing, no wonder the fractures were ignored.

Lichtenburg figure, lightning strike, pebbles skittering on the metal playground slide. Mother’s smart little entertainment piece, batting eyelashes, perfect baby mimic— “Sometimes you sound a bit British, when you’re fucked up,” fey raven creature learning from the TV before mother gave the order. Mirror shattered but the bad luck ran out—the bad luck never runs out. The divinity, through sharp teeth, says “Generational curse,” as though it’s obvious, like the stink of trauma, of magic, never fades.

A little girl with the wrong voice plucks a long-legged spider from where brother’s feet would reach, and raises it high, setting it free. The little girl says “Don’t you remember? If you kill a daddy-long-legs, it’s bound to rain.” Big brother wants the rain, and soon nothing else remains.