Diazepam dissolves to sweet sludge on my tongue,

my clenched brain softens, numbs,

as we trudge across the mud

toward the gaudiness.

My youngest child's smile is cloudless:

I marvel at his oblivion,

wonder if he works hard to maintain it.

The first ride he goes solo,

lurching up, down, up

on the gut-wrenching machine.

My partner takes pictures

as I think about death

and smile until the corners tremble.

It's hard to be suicidal

on the Waltzers, brain wrapped in candyfloss haze;

hard to think about endings

when you are centrifugally pinned in place

between those you love, fixed

on their grins as you spin, holding on

as you try to let go.

The Crazy Mouse can't compete with me,

though we are both spindly, rickety,

held together with old bolts and hope.

The carriage plunges, twists, dips.

My son is still smiling. There are still demons

in my chest. We rattle and laugh

and cuddle together in the cold.

A sign says, 'Mind Your Head'. I do.

The site is trampled, litter-strewn. This fair

comes and goes, springing up overnight, staying a while.

Lurid, loud, overwhelming, full of screams.

Then one day it is over, dismantled piece by piece

with sweat and effort, packed and driven off, until

it's just a muddy imprint on the grass.

All that's left is what we choose to remember.

By next spring, my son may have outgrown

this smattering of rattletrap thrills.

By next spring, I hope I might be sane.