by Victoria Reynolds

I got so used to letting you go that now

I prefer the moment the empty bar

dips to the lowest point

in its arc then begins

its flight upward

to where I stand on my platform,

my emerald leotard shimmering

in the spotlight, my white hands

casually extended

to grasp my imminent flight.

I could say I rue the strength of sinew

and arms that hung me from the bar, regret

the moment I pointed my toes and tipped

from my metal perch, but

the enemy wasn’t my body, or gravity,

it was mistaking my hold for mastery.

What every proper trapeze artist learns:

freedom lies in letting go of what moves us.

The infant grabs the mother’s finger instinctually.

One day, she’ll learn to let go,

believing another set of hands

will grasp back.