They said the net
would catch me
if I fell, they said
there was
no possibility
of death, they said
the rope was taut
and the ground soft.

They said all this,
and I fell;
a whistling in my eardrums,
a needle
through unforgiving
gravity. I fell
with grace,
they said
in the tabloids later.

I fell like a
drunk gymnast
from a narrow beam,
I fell and
broke the line,
snapped the net,
dragging its feeble threads
behind me,

into hard ground.


Featured image by Beth Scupham. Available on Flickr under Creative Commons license 2.0

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