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
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.