At the blue circus,

women in clenched corsets,

fishnet stockings, and shined shoes –

smiled.

They were distractions, assistants, 

and quiet artists. 

 

Silent, beautiful mothers

of the moon and the stars. 

Dreaming of Jupiter,

sleeping in forests,

counting time gone by in the 

bumps and wrinkles of an elephant‘s skin. 

 

These are the women that Father Time forgot. 

 

Every tarot card read,

tea leaf swallowed,

and palm touched,

brings new life to them. 

 

The old Gods gorged themselves on the hopes and selfishness of humanity. 

Their dreams and desperation created an immortal diet –

curing illnesses and smoothing skin. 

 

As unattached, husbandless creatures,

they live warm, wild, and wicked lives. 

 

They are gypsy women,

the daughters of Pluto

eating sweet purple plums,

sticky pitless peaches,

and Persephone’s decadent pomegranates,

all the while, dancing atop frozen ponds

 

Hexes are weaved into their twisted manes,

curses outline their lavender irises,

and spells are cast between their thighs. 

 

In their childless existences, they find

potential, passion, purpose. 

 

As they hold hands and chant lullabies for the lost,

lightening seeks vengeance. 

The clouds sag and drip with 

the grief born from dark suburban homes

and unlit alleys. 

 

Go. 

Go to the circus. 

Ask to be blessed by celestial, circus women,

and you’ll know how stardust tastes.