Trapeze Poem By Larissa Szporluk
To float you must float from within.
You must not feel attached
as you brush past the body you loved,
an arm past an arm, an almost weightless vapor.
Don’t ask questions anymore. Don’t hear
his seismic voice. Fractures thread the floor;
time will energize their creep
until you’re caving through his ceiling.
It’s all a matter of containment,
held-in breath, the hidden table. Keep in mind
that dreaming up means waking down,
so keep your swing in limbo. Don’t aim high:
Where air turns thin, the ear tears open
with a secret’s restless heat,
surrendering its recess—the details of explosion
fizzling in a tree, remembered now and then,
but not so well, by something on and off,
like fireflies—when pressure mounts beneath it.