The carnival is sick freedom,
something less,
passing through town,
barking forbidden desires,
promising an untranslatable ticket to the show.
Our parents encouraged this.
They wanted us to rub up
against something different,
strange and welcome,
but only for an instant,
in the blink of an eye.
“Love but don’t touch,” they said,
“and don’t admit your love.
It’s just a passing fancy.”
