by Tina Barry Sebastian Davenport-Handley I tell Henrietta how the flaps of carnival trucks waved like dirty elephants’ ears. In a day, the parking lot of our small strip mall reeked of all things sweet, and the twin tracks of the roller coaster carved arches in the sky. Carnies lounged in the sun, smoked in dormant teacups of a ride, snored in its saucers. One’s teeth glinted gold. At night they strutted, tough toms, shirts opened to cords of chest hair twisting north of the