poetry THE TRAPEZE ARTIST by Susan Peters Says: I love you lets go the rope
In a silence, falls: hits the net, bounces up— nothing injured but pride
Hears: I love you too catches the outstretched hands
A fool asks: Do you love me? works with no net, the timing is off, hope plummets like stone
The crowd, horrified, cannot look away
YOUNG GRANNY by Susan Peters No, I didn't marry young. My daughter came along when I was twenty-seven. She was no teenager when she got pregnant, either. And though it's nice to be taken for my grandchild's mother by thirty-year-old fathers in the park, the real joy is climbing up the slide then flying down, lap full of laughing child. (The real joy is in the body's memory of youth: baby on one hip, keys in my jeans, striding along as though I am immortal.)
IMP by Susan Peters My friend the energy healer sees auras, he says, each color signifies an inner state. I listen though I can't admit belief. Today he told me of a woman who'd come in agony, her head throbbing, gripped and squeezed by bony fingers "like the devil himself was in there." He'd put her in deep relaxation (eyes closed, breathing normally) moved his hands above her head all the while murmuring, drawing out the pain. As he fell into the rhythm a cloud emerged, formless, a greenish fog that stung his eyes, suggestions of claws and teeth. He pushed the thing away, saw it rise and melt into the ceiling panels. The woman sighed: It's gone. It was green, I think. And as he told me this he moved away, squinting a bit, sensing beneath my patient smile a flash of teeth a glimmering of green.
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