Claire Zhang is a sophomore at Yale University majoring in English. She enjoys reading and writing, and, like any standard young person of her age, social media usage. Visit her blog.

Carnival
By Claire Zhang

The night was cold; it bound our hands,
left them for dead, and I had left my coat
at home and reckless feet in flip-flops, so
I clutched your arm to siphon all your warmth
and we stood in queue clutching paper that
seemed worth nothing but really cost us
at least twenty dollars. What a scam.
Five tickets, five dollars, we take our seats
in the gondola, where countless couples
must have sat, like us, couples with wandering
hands and trembling skin and ravenous tongues
in the same bench as us. I know this because 
of the clumsy scrawls of Sharpie behind
the dirt and grime, faded milestones,
lopsided hearts, some round and fat, or skinny
(they’re all probably broken now),
initials S + A, letters kidnapped by numbers
“2gether 4ever,” and dates, and I want to
find these people, ask them if the permanent
marker really sealed them 4 ever and why
they thought it was a good idea to do that.
We lurch up, steel groans, screws wobble
“Keep hands and feet in the gondola at all times”
doors flap in the chilly wind, no seat belts
we dangle in the black star studded sky.
Above, a girl and a boy fit like Matryoshka dolls,
each curve and contour nestled in the other.
They are learning in a language of tingling sparks,
an exchange of exploding neurons, lit synapses
bright as the fair lights below, ridiculous names
Gravitron, Avalanche, Zipper, Mega Drop
bordered in Technicolor bulbs, flashing with
infinite energy like the hyperactive children fueled by
Elephant Ears and funnel cake and fried Oreos–
different names for the same thing,
golden fried dough dripping with grease,
dusted with powdered sugar;
the scent invades every breath of mine.
It’s gross. It all is really, the lights,
the moaning joints of the rides,
signs in faded flamboyant fonts,
chicken skewered on sticks; curly fries
soaked in viscous cheese; barbecue sauce
and mashed potatoes and pulled pork
layered in a cup (pork parfait) and
sticky, slimy fingers colored by cotton candy
(nothing more than sweet air)
sketchy, gaudy, dirty, tacky, filthy.
But we come here still, it’s too
wrapped up in our hearts, it stole our past.
We practice the foreign language
when we reach the top of the Ferris wheel,
kindle the flames in our nerves
and when finished, lean up to stare at
the moon hanging so low in the sky,
its muted glow, tonight tinged, strangely, red.