Poems from

The Circus

My father loved clowns, but hated the circus.

He couldn’t forget the girl who died in the Big Top fire

when I was four. One Christmas we attended a party

the Bullard Company threw for their toolmakers’ kids.

Emmett Kelly was there, tripping over his slapstick shoes,

intriguing us with balloons twisted into barking dogs. 

When Kelly finished his act my father yanked me

from my chair, stood me beside the stage door. 

When Kelly walked by he held my hand out so far

the clown couldn’t refuse.  This is Emmett Kelly. 

The greatest clown on earth! he said like they were buddies. 

Kelly smiled, shook my hand and tipped his pork-pie hat.

I’ve never forgotten that moment,

the white gloved hand holding mine, my father’s pride.

We went to the circus only once, sat near the exit,

my father fidgeting while I watched women fly the trapeze. 

Only the clowns could make him laugh,

forget for a moment the little girl,

her blue eyes, how no one came to identify her.

Put Another Nickel In

There we were, hanging out in this bar,

me and my husband and my best friend

in the kind of place she loved but I hated,

cigarettes stinking the air,

a glass of beer some drunk was too drunk to hold

sloshed on the dance floor,

the music resonating its tinny jukebox sound,

and my friend, curling under my husband’s arm

when she thought I couldn’t see.

It was October, almost Halloween,

and me, talked into going out celebrating --

pumpkins, cats, burning leaves,

the sly slivered moon, anything

that would get her out of her house.

Every time the band would twist and shout

the end of a set, she’d slam a quarter in the slot--

Connie Francis wailing and crooning

about who’s sorry, and I don’t know why I love you.

She had this thing for men. Always teasing,

sashaying around in tight jeans, wiggling

like something hooked, getting bored

soon as they were caught. 

It almost killed me seeing them

cuddled in a corner, my husband hanging on

like she was moving upstream and him believing

it was the only place to die.                   

New Poems   

Saving For Good

At my age you don’t save anything for good.

Now you use that little red purse from Croatia

given to you on this Christmas that could be your last.

You take the gold jewelry from the drawer,

clasp the delicate bracelet around your wrist,

hang the filigree earrings on your lobes,

wear the best blouse you own to the grocers.

You take the good china down from the shelf

treat the sterling spoons and forks like plastic ware

with daily use. You drink tea from that beautiful cup

you swore you’d pass down to your children,

lay the hand-made lace cloth across the kitchen table,

wear all of it out, use it all up. This

is the time you were saving it for.

At The Vet’s Office

for Jack

I took our cat to the vet this morning

for the third time in two weeks

and when I said to the cat,

to calm him, or myself,

He hasn’t killed you yet,

the vet joked, But we’ll keep trying!

and I begin thinking of men

kind and mean and how –

unlike this vet I chose

straight off, first visit,

to care for all of my pets –

it took me three tries

to find the right man.

The first one I married was a hitter –

open palm, threatening fists,

a knife that promised

to cut my throat before I escaped.

The second one, worse. A handsome man

with no past. I should have known

his clamming up was covering up

what no woman would want to know –

that he lied and cheated and stole and played

head-games and made weapons of words –

crazy, sick, lazy, liar, leech.

The vet leans over the exam table

gently holding open the cat’s eye,

drops in numbing solution, strokes

the cat's white chin, waits patiently

for the eyeball to freeze

so that he can examine the ulcer

on the yellow-green cornea.

The cat’s eyes are tearing and

so are mine. The vet says

that the procedure isn’t hurting the cat,

as much as it hurts me

and I mumble something about not being able

to raise children again, that cat worry

was all I could handle these days,

and he nods.

I know being a vet is not just a job for this man

who would never blow a pheasant apart

with a shotgun, never catch a jackrabbit’s foot

in a steel trap, never say killing a deer

is hard work – You don’t know

how far I had to track it

before I got a good enough shot –

the secretive one said.

The cat’s eye is numbed and the vet

peers into it with a light, tells me

surgery is necessary to cut out the blight

and tears spring to my eyes again.

The vet blinks and says, Don’t fret,

you will have him back home tonight,

and I am overwhelmed with gratitude

for the sweet husband who will pick up the cat

and pay the bill without a word.

"Gandy Dancing"

Gandy Dancing

poems by Jean Sands

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Reviews

"Once you read one page, you won't be able to put this book down."

The Review

“Gandy Dancing is an extraordinary first book, the narrative of an American Everywoman whose life does not often come into poems. In language that is direct, uncommonly modest, and so unsparing it breaks the heart, Jean Sands brings that woman, herself, beautifully, shockingly into the great conversation of American poetry.” Honor Moore, author of Red Shoes"

“This is a powerful and unforgettable collection." Cortney Davis, author of "Leopold's Maneuvers"

"From the title poem to the last poem in the collection, “I Became the Woman I Am Now,” Gandy Dancing is a song of triumph." 

Rennie McQuilkin, editor, Antrim House Books

"Not an image or sound is out of place."

Dick Allen, author of "Present Vanishing"