Trapeze Memories

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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?

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