The Fair

I had sticky pink lips and sugar teeth

cause the years Gran came to the fair were few.

Her leather hand would squeeze mine – one, two, three.

Despite the stick, she'd hold on. *I* *Love* *You*

A clown had balloons floating on curled string–

she insisted red, her favorite color.

She begged for a secret; 'school crush type thing.'

"I swear, I won't even tell your mother!"

We'd whisper of scandals all afternoon

while taking pictures of trapeze dancers.

Every year after that, she'd come in June

during the fair – until she got cancer.

Now mom and I kiss the Ferris wheel sky.

Cotton candy clouds spelling out goodbye.