First, don't marvel.  I was born this way, 
a baby in a cradle rocking high tree boughs. 
The branches never once broke. 

Next, the schoolgirl standing 
on the flagpole, terror of teachers 
and principals, my feet braced 
around a smooth gold globe, 
feeling the wind, the cold 
slippery metal, the vicious tug 
of ground.  It was then I learned 
what arms are meant for. 

Balance. 

Now, as I bounce 
on my flexible 20-foot 
pole, in my chair with no seat belt, 
no nets underneath, 
I have to admit 

the shrieks of the crowd 
do thrill me, and the smiles 
of toddlers clinging to their fathers’ 
shoulders, pointing: There, Daddy. 
Look there. 

But don't be fooled. 

Balancing’s an act, but I do it 
for myself, not for you, the gawkers 
and the danger-seekers. I’m an addict; 
I live for wind rolling through my hair, quick 
like an underground river, my tiny arches 
clasping that shivering line between body 

and gravity.  Still no nets, only me, a cable 
anchored at both ends, and a rich green 
valley plunging to the center of the earth. 

Watch me stand on my head.  I have 
another pole--also flexible--that I use 
as an extension of my arms, to shear 
air as I imagine airplanes do, cutting clouds 
to pieces.  Some days, I imagine 

I will never fall, though I do remember 
the night my family first failed 
the seven-man pyramid. Daddy caught me 
by my ankle in mid-air, prevented me 
from tumbling after two older brothers down 
to the breakneck concrete.  Dangling 

by an achilles tendon, that’s when I learned 
what Newton never fathomed: the earth’s pull, 
forcing blood through capillaries, filaments of blood 
pooling at the base of your neck; that’s when you feel 
life as a shirt on a clothesline, riding sweet 
Sunday breezes, always fighting temptation 
to pull free from the pins and float. 
 

Proof 

So much depends 
upon 

a stained blue 
dress 

in a gallon-size 
ziplock 

behind the low-fat 
ice cream