Loneliness is still time spent with the world.
—Ocean Vuong
It would be easier if loneliness would come to me
like the angel that wrestled with Jacob,
if it would slip by night into my tent
and rip me out of slumber,
force me to be awake and alone, but
there is no room in my tent.
I have already invited the circus.
We stay up all night and dance,
me and the tigers and fire breathers.
We practice swallowing swords
and how to best stitch
new feather headdresses
and red-sequined capes. All night
the ringmaster announces
the next act and the next, and
though my eyes would droop
and my body would sleep
and my heart would have time
for mourning, I force my dimming self
to clap as the clowns yet again
climb out of their tiny car
with their garish grins—
how could there be so many of them?
with their horns and their tricks
and umbrellas and balls—
so many clowns that loneliness
has no chance to slip into this place
where I entertain endless acts that prevent
me from wrestling, from asking,
please, to be blessed.
