Her straitjacket stays loosely tied
above our heads (ticket complimentary).
She leans into a right angle
now acute, hesitates then her
running steps stride on the tightrope.
Her ex sits in the first row like a lion’s
open mouth, aghast, stares upward,
maybe anxious over aerial missteps.
Lighting attached to joists,
spots the distance down. Where each foot
partly shares space with the other,
remembers to move forward, toe-to-heel
and endless contortion, pushing
air ahead of every step away, the right sole in love
with the other rounding the wire. Notice, her feet
tremble, their new lack of balance tumbling her
downward in front of us, in slow motion
as she drops into her ex-husband’s
razor-shark smile.
