Bungee Jumping

Before the woman leaps off the 160-foot platform, she sees
the tear-colored ghost of her body.

Far below, beneath her, a man watches. He's gracefully hauled
her sweaty backpack, weighed down

by novels and crocheted dresses bought for her by the man before
him. He has come this far, but will not go

higher despite her brief begging. He puts a bandana over his eyes,
either to shield from the heat or pretend

he's not afraid to watch. She calls down for him to jump. But he
won't. Whether he's too wise

or weak remains to be seen. Whether she is careless or fearless
is beside the point. The point is this:

from that height, it's so bright she can see the city below
her toes. Now she is back in her body

that is my body. Mine and mine alone. Now I am back, looking down
at you, back to that time of perfect paralysis.

It doesn't matter what sadness happened from there. How your pull
exerted too much gravity.

How I wanted you to ascend to greater heights. That's also how you
and I were perfect.

When it came time to jump alone, the distance between us
had become natural as air, but sad

as a last breath. So I took a breath and begged the assistant
behind me, just push me, push me, push.

 
Maria Nazos

Maria Nazos' poetry, translations, and lyrical essays are published in The New Yorker, The Tampa Review, The Mid-American Review, and elsewhere. She is the author of A Hymn That Meanders, (2011 Wising Up Press) and the chapbook Still Life, (2016 Dancing Girl Press). Her work has received fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and scholarships from The Sewanee Writers' Conference. A recent graduate of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln's English Ph.D. program, she can be found at www.marianazos.com.

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