Your feet in the air like a gymnast prepared
For some intricate trick to be seen,
The audience gasps and their pastel blue masks
Make their way through the room to your knees,
The ringmaster moves to make better his view,
In his hand; something silver and smooth;
Something magpies would fly towards,
Would swoop down and fight for;
Something clinical, kindly and cruel.
The instrument slides through your thighs to the home
Of a lump of ingrown skin and bone,
The ringmaster’s team start to creep into life,
Moving silently, smoothly and slow,
A trickle of blood and the ringmaster’s glove
Shines with rosy red rubies and studs,
Your eyes, terrified, verify with my own
What’s begun, what’s been done, and we know
With your feet in the air like a gymnast prepared,
We’ve been thrown, and to where? We don’t know,
With your feet in the air and my hand in your hair,
We've been thrown where we don't want to go.
