The spotlights have converged. The acrobats
have been led into the ring. The lions

have been corseted, the children’s
mouths torn open, the music released

to its deafening work and Enya
has given her handlers the slip. Her cage

is empty, her dinner of chocolate and red wine
untouched. The bars have been bent

into the shape of a dove. Out in the ring, the show
goes on: the baboons screech

and pick men’s pockets; the elephants do
an erotic fan-dance. The crowd grows

restless: they are here for Enya’s
finale, the dazzling array of shapes

her body assumes. (She is famous
for her flaming snakes, her chandeliers shaped

like human skulls.) She is already half an hour
overdue and the performers have begun

to improvise, the clowns rolling like lipsticked waves
across the first three rows of seats, the tigers

drinking vinegar and leaving their bodies. The magician
begins to snatch children from the audience

and tie their limbs in grotesque knots. And Enya
crouches in the shadows beneath

the bleachers, small and secret, watching.