Mother was
the cast-iron skillet
Father the slippery oil,
I the dizzy jack
flipping o’er the stove.

Nothing to do
with height or weight.
Thistles fluff
and then they fall.
What child goes up
and stays
such heat?
Mother simmering
down below.

I wanted to be
the giddy vulture
slipping on the wind,
Philip Petite
between the peaks,
never giving in.

Didn’t think of heaven
as I climbed
that circus rope,
bobbing like a tight balloon
above the giddy show.

To fall was faith,
to drop, to drown,
sun-downing they say
in nursing homes
as dark comes on, the catch
for those who think
they know
what lies below.