Haiku Sonnet: The Big Top

As a child, I saw
just one circus, a show whipped
by snaking roads and
tired of carrying
itself between towns like ours.
The ringmaster roared
with boredom, his voice
ripped from rotten canvas. As
his wife—stuffed in sequins—
prepared to climb an
elephant, he pulled her stool
too soon. She fell and
broke her leg. The show ended—
her sharp cry so real.

14 Years Later

My older brother is a physician and told me once I shouldn’t expect to remain slim forever. Most men, he said, gain one pound for every year after 35. At the time I resisted—an inveterate athlete, I told him I’d be the exception—but, as with most of his statements about aging, [...]

Haiku Sonnet 6: Channels

Clouds cover the sun,
and you’re chilled again. “Let’s go,”
you say. I follow.
We are animals
after all—uncomfortable
with the dangers of
solitude. Thinking
of our children sleeping at home,
worry flares as if
you’d turned the channel
to static, the dead broadcast
of chaos. Without each
other, the world is too cold
for imagination.
This sonnet is the sixth in a Fall Crown on [...]

Haiku Sonnet 1: Departures*

source
Spitting city rain
riddles the sidewalk with spots
of ghost animals.
Those who once really
roamed here weren’t so exotic,
their camouflage brown,
grey and tan, colors
of Chicago now. This rain
isn’t wet enough
to bring any life
back, isn’t wet enough to
pool. In the alley,
a squirrel climbs from a dumpster
just to watch us pass.
This sonnet is the first in a [...]