The fire-eater shoots forth

a final blast of flame,

hoping to singe the wide-eyed

boy in front. He hates

the audience, their credulity,

the performance—"fire blowing"

he derides it. He takes a quick bow,

ignores cries of "Encore!" and disappears.

Alone in his trailer, he prepares

a large plate of burning coals

and, calmer now, closes his eyes,

then plunges in with a soup spoon.




published in Backbone Mountain Review, 2011