Sword Swallower

The throat's convulsion makes no sound as the vocal chords are cut and the subject's closed with time's sutures. The fortune teller has said her sooth til the water's clouded over stagnant with repetition fallen on deaf ears. There are no scales of justice on the snakeboy's skin no happy ending in the bearded woman's heart. Just the squeaky wheel of chance turning in the gritty wind. I know illusion when I see it: wrought with mirrors and gaslight, the figure behind the red plush curtain. And yet it was such a sweet trick I could not look away. At dawn I can see the tent is threadbare, the costumes stained and worn. And I am not the pretty girl on the silver horse. I know all that. I am the swallower of swords.