The Juggler 

for Doug

I found them again
in the attic, dusty
and full of you.

Phoenix - 1973
You were a friend 
of a friend
I belonged to no one
We walked the rainy
streets that night
and more, crying,
hugging, laughing
finding strength
in each loss.

But it was your juggling
that won my heart-
the squint of concentration,
tongue pecking the edge
of your lip, mouth open
in slight grin, in wonder
at all those bright colored
balls rotating the air:
fat rainbow planets
you carried everywhere.
You bought me a set
and placed then along
with your magic
into my hands.

Touching them now,
I imagine you tall, dark,
tuxedoed, out with your wife
(some sleek blonde beauty),
flipping coins during the
theater intermission;
on the beach amazing
crowds of children with
the spin of seashells;
perhaps shopping in some
market where you reach
for oranges and apples
and send them whirling

Allison Thorpe
Edmonton, Kentucky

The Boy Who's Learning to Juggle

lives in a haze.  Blue balls
follow him, disciples
roll in a smooth arc through the wheel
of his young life.

He studies the crest of the pitch,
the neat slap of the catch
and says he knows a girl so tall
that when she stands he nearly drowns.

His hands flutter like new birds 
risk everything in order to fly.
The air folds an endless ellipse
He throws fast and shallow
then hard and deep into the sky
simple and perfect as breathing.

He says he's ready for sabres
and torches. He says he has odd dreams
that he can breathe underwater,
that he can swim for miles and miles.

by Margo Wilding
San Diego, California