I hung my dear old trapeze up in the new flat today where I’ve had the short silks. Five years it’s been through the wars with me, loaned to a circus school with me injured and grounded. It has flung off friends and told me to be brave.
I let it down. I hung it in a playground, in a theatre in a slum.
I was never good enough for the circus. I watched others better perform.
It is the thing to grab in a fire, a mangy dog that follows me, that I’ve carried through streets.
Showing off to a neighbour today I remember all the simple poses I haven’t height for.
I can never separate it from teachers and bruises.
I wish I could dance on it again how I enjoy.
I am too extraordinarily problematic for circus schools.
I long for just an empty corner to hang heavy in with no eyes on me.
It really is a different feel to slings and hammocks. It is hard and doesn’t hold you. It doesn’t caress or capture or secure you. Not like silk or net i turned to for solace.
It is my steel bar and two frayed ropes.
Is there a place we can hang?