I wanted the real photograph
not the straw bales
and candy apple faces.
The circus tents veil of glamour
soon returns to canvas and rope
as sticky children skip away,
I walk small among the closing down,
and creep my shadow on bill board walls
side tents glow behind busy glances.
The thin slit of a caravan door whispers
of a world not seen before.
She sits straight on a high back chair
smearing lines across her face,
high above the audience she climbs
each night with dusted hands
and plans a ballerina’s fake escape.
The old trailer offers up whiskey tainted
whispers as the low lights dim and surge.
She spoke plainly, knowing I had to listen.
Is this the picture you would take from me?
The empty glass reality of aching limbs
and crippled hands, a life that seeped
on traveled cracks between
your towns and fields
each poster pasted
over stolen miles and years.
My name is Alina, you should at least know that,
I didn’t answer, I stayed a coward, hidden
while my camera stole everything she had left.