Separate Realities
Ann Naylor
Juggling
Diane Tucker
This is our madness: we maintain.
We keep the hours in the air, many-coloured,
as though every one were meant
to be as merry as the last, the same smiles,
the same jokes,
the same lives propped-up together.
You pretend everything’s the same,
as though we could suddenly live without gravity,
without earth under our feet. Without air.
“It’s really great to be here!” you bellow,
expanding your chest as a sharp pain
begins in my breastbone
and the middle of my back.
I can see your frantic eyes,
but haven’t breath enough to say a word.
You’re juggling too, but I think you’re better at it
than I am. You juggle the bright scarves of hours,
but years’ knives too, and the single machete
of all our vows, spinning silver above your head.
In your hands it doesn’t look life-threatening.
It looks somehow ordered;
every time you say “Love, I don’t know,”
it turns into a shiny apple you can toss,
can take clever bites out of between passes.
I’m the volunteer from the audience:
smiling, but abashed. Secretly praying
for it all to be over with as little humiliation
as possible.
You position me,
slip a lit cigarette between my lips, steady me
in your sights as you draw back your arm.