Watching the Sword Swallower
BY KARRIE WAARALA
His long throat works like the corn snake
I watched devour a field mouse last spring.
Snake snatched that poor mouse by the head
and I couldn’t help but cry a little at those
bitty back legs kicking and scrambling and finally
just giving in to the hungry ripples pulling it down
into that snake’s belly. Those damn Hudson boys
spotted me sniffling and I ain’t lived it down since.
I stare hard at the stage, figure there’s gotta be a trick,
but he just slides blade after blade right on down
and they’re sharp, too, the barker held out a hair
for the swallower to slice before tipping back his head
and gulping down danger. I need to know
how he does that, keep trying to ask Pop but
he’s too busy talking crop prices with Mr. Granger,
keeps shrugging me off his sleeve.
So I shimmy through the crowd and right up close
until I can see the swallower’s tilted-up face reflected
in the sword’s slick edge, see the fevered glint in his eye
and smooth twist of his wrist, feel the audience
wrinkle up with nerves until they burst with clapping
as he pulls the weapon free, grinning and puffed up
on the noisy awe of the crowd pushing me against the stage,
and all of a sudden I don’t feel so bad for that mouse.
The swallower musta seen my feelings on my face
because he barks out a ragged laugh and winks at me
as a snake of something fierce uncoils itself in my belly.
I want to be gargantuan, a death-defying wonder
painted on flapping canvas signs, a spectacle to behold.
I want a crowd curled up in my hands, the Hudson boys
staring up at the sharp edges of my daring, just once
I want to be the most dangerous thing I know.
His long throat works like the corn snake
I watched devour a field mouse last spring.
Snake snatched that poor mouse by the head
and I couldn’t help but cry a little at those
bitty back legs kicking and scrambling and finally
just giving in to the hungry ripples pulling it down
into that snake’s belly. Those damn Hudson boys
spotted me sniffling and I ain’t lived it down since.
I stare hard at the stage, figure there’s gotta be a trick,
but he just slides blade after blade right on down
and they’re sharp, too, the barker held out a hair
for the swallower to slice before tipping back his head
and gulping down danger. I need to know
how he does that, keep trying to ask Pop but
he’s too busy talking crop prices with Mr. Granger,
keeps shrugging me off his sleeve.
So I shimmy through the crowd and right up close
until I can see the swallower’s tilted-up face reflected
in the sword’s slick edge, see the fevered glint in his eye
and smooth twist of his wrist, feel the audience
wrinkle up with nerves until they burst with clapping
as he pulls the weapon free, grinning and puffed up
on the noisy awe of the crowd pushing me against the stage,
and all of a sudden I don’t feel so bad for that mouse.
The swallower musta seen my feelings on my face
because he barks out a ragged laugh and winks at me
as a snake of something fierce uncoils itself in my belly.
I want to be gargantuan, a death-defying wonder
painted on flapping canvas signs, a spectacle to behold.
I want a crowd curled up in my hands, the Hudson boys
staring up at the sharp edges of my daring, just once
I want to be the most dangerous thing I know.
KARRIE WAARALA is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from University of Southern Maine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Orange Room Review, Foundling Review, PANK, Stymie, two national poetry slam anthologies, and on a coffee shop floor in Arizona. Karrie’s one-woman show based on her poems about the circus, LONG GONE: A Poetry Sideshow, recently made its debut. She really wishes she could tame tigers and swallow swords.