The Summer Carnival Poem by Amy Sutton

'Well, what do you want? '
Says the woman at the stall,
Pulling at the smoking cigarette
Chained to her yellow fingers.
Her eyes glisten like eels
In the sunken rock pools
Of her face.

She scowls
At the sea of fresh faces;
Young, scrubbed up
Dizzy boys,
New blood coursing
Through their transparent cheeks.

'We're not sure, '
They mumble.
'We have heard of this new thing –
Passion.
We read about it in school. Oh, and
Romance.
That seemed good too.
We think we want to know
Closeness.
That could be it. Or
Desire.
There was a lot about that. And
Love?
We're not sure what they all mean yet.
But everyone who's got them says
You can't live without them.'

The old woman croaks
A toad's laugh,
And scatters ash over
Their windswept hair.
'Very nice words, boys,
Very pretty. I know about these, boys,
I'll tell you all about them.

But at a price –
A fair deal.
Your innocence for my information.
It's not as though you've ever really
Needed innocence.
At best it's a hindrance.
What do you say? '

Small hands dig around in coats,
Coins rolls asunder,
And the old woman's eyes glimmer
As they give up their innocence.
She clutches their youth
In a haggard fist,
And then plunges it deep
Into an endless pocket.

'Passion?
Passion is fire,
And Passion is pain.
Passion burns through lips and souls.
It scorches your heart and leaves you
Black and withered
And freezing in its absence.'

'Romance?
Romance is half-dreaming,
And Romance is half-floating.
Romance is the tedious path
Down which you must carry a starry-eyed girl
Before you may lay her down
In the darkness of a midnight hour.'

'Closeness?
Closeness is flesh
And Closeness is blood.
Closeness is the feel and touch
And the tingling down your spine.
Closeness is the blind sensation
Of dark, trembling warmth.'

'Desire?
Desire is want
And Desire is greed
Desire is the insatiable hunger
For body and soul
The untameable beast in your heart
Roaring to take and consume.'

'And Love? ' the boys ask.
Their voices are lower,
And the shadow of stubble lurks
On suddenly masculine chins.
'What about Love?
We hear it so much.
What is Love? '

'What is Love? ' says the old woman,
With a rotting half-smile.
'Well that, boys, depends entirely
On who says it.'