WEBVTT

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This is another one that's--

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this one is very new,
that I'm writing.

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I'm still not clear
about everything

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that I want in this poem.

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But when I was about
five, I went to the circus

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with my family.

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And my father was making
movies, home movies,

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which-- he always had his
camera at all great events.

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And what happened was a
woman from the trapeze

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fell down and was killed, and
he caught it on the camera.

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And he still has this on film.

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And whenever I see the movie, I
can't figure out whether or not

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this is something I really
saw-- which my parents tell me

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I really saw it, or
whether it's something

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that I've seen the
film so many times

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that that's now my memory, the
film, not what I really saw.

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You know, you repress
horrible things like that.

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So this is called "Young
Woman on the Flying Trapeze."

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My father's handheld camera
caught elephants in his lens,

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shrank them harmless, the size
of captured bees in a jar.

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A lion tamer,
sitting in his chair.

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Father kept nature
in perspective.

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I saw the human pyramid balance
on an acrobats head and bicycle

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along the spider
webs, all-- sorry--

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and bicycle along the
tight rope's single strand

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of spider web.

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They're 10 foot snapping
of balance pole bending.

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No safety net to land in.

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The trapeze artist caught
his partner in mid-air,

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caught by the camera's
perfect timing,

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as they swung in and
out of my line of sight.

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I was five.

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In nightmares, the
body falls straight

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into the dreamer's eye, who
wakes before hitting bottom.

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Did I blink then?

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Did I glance away?

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The moment her
silver body tumbled

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like an angel out of heaven?

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I don't remember it.

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My father slows the clicking
projector down frame by frame.

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The lady trapezer aims for her
partner now and somersaults.

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Her partner's
wavering hand connects

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with her sequined wrist.

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His other hand
misses, clamping shut

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on the air that frames her.

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No connection.

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Her body blurring its
slurred speech as,

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on the sawdust floor, the
camera locates the broken italic

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of her flesh.

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No connection.

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I still can't focus, no matter
how many times I see it,

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no matter how many times
my father runs the film.

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Projected in reverse,
my father has her climb

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the ladder of light one
more time for my benefit,

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as she performs a last
miraculous escape.

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But he can't rescue her or
me from gravity forever.

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Backwards, she bullets
up towards the bull's eye

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of her partner's fist, her
face enlarged in its unknowing,

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and comically lands on
the platform, squarely

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on her own two feet.

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Spliced into the same
reel, unreal documents

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of the commonplace.

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A picnic underway.

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Then it is Sunday.

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The living room
upholstery is brand new.

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The frigid air is
white enamel white.

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Then, a lucky break
to catch this.

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I am crawling, hoisting
myself up my mother's skirts

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to take my first steps,
fighting to keep my balance,

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staggering towards
whatever it was I reached

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for out of camera range.

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A speck on the eye's periphery.

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And the camera held
and followed me,

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exploring these
unfamiliar heights.

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