A Saltimbanque Mourns His Wife

Eva, did you think you could fly
when you threw yourself off that building,
when you lanced yourself out into blackness and rain
only a streetlight to guide you?

Did you think you would land softly
light as the silken red scarf
attached to your waist
or were you a misguided angel diving to earth
a darkened mess?

No safety net beneath you
and me, with all the tricks my hands could do
would not have been able to catch your shadow
stop it lean and cruel from wanting
to cross to the other side.

Were you consumed? Your face flickering
over a smoky candle always held secrets.
Had you burned down to the wick?
Or was it more violent, angry as the fire-thrower
who could extinguish fire,
re-spit it as quick as contempt?

My hands make nervous usage
of rope, hoops and juggling pins
searching the movements
that might have kept us going,
you from flying.

Instead, waking to another day
every woman I see is you,
every movement of a long and billowy skirt
cuts me in half, no knife holds such power.

Even the dark plastic sack
hung on these railroad tracks
recalls black lace, your slip fallen around your ankles
in a moon-lit pool at the foot of our bed.

Eva, were you to throw me your reddened scarf
how I would reach down,
plunge into darkness.