I'm in a carousel.
The kind that spins
people to the wall.
There is a woman
and a man and a man
inside of it too,
and a man operating it.
Everybody I love is
looking down at me,
laughing. When I die,
I'll die alone.
I know that much,
held down by my
own shadow, wanting
to touch the woman,
the man, the man,
across the curvature.
I won't be able to even
look. I'm on a train.
I'm a tiny spider.
A tiny star.
Or a giant spider.
When everything stops,
I'll open the only door
to the carousel and
it'll be the wrong one
I've forgotten entering.


About this poem
"There is this scene in the film '400 Blows' where Antoine is struggling inside a moving carousel at the carnival. Other kids are above him, looking in, maybe laughing. I've only watched the film once, years ago, but I think about that scene sometimes when I wake up or fall asleep. How the force pulls and pushes at you in a carousel. I remember a couple kissing next to him. Yeah, the kids were definitely laughing. That's what I remember anyway."
-Zachary Schomburg

About Zachary Schomburg
Zachary Schomburg is the author of "The Book of Joshua" (Black Ocean, 2014). He co-edits Octopus Books and lives in Portland, Ore.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.

(c) 2016 Zachary Schomburg. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate