Self-Portrait as Aerialist

Carrie Shipers

I’ve always been afraid to fall—the rough 
embrace of the net, the crowd’s shocked gasp, 
my mother’s disapproval.  She loves me best

when I can fly, when I trust the bar, the leap,
the air and all my training.  From far away, 
every catch, release and tumble looks as effortless 

as breath.  Up close, we grunt and cry, hands 
sweat and slip, wires creak and nearly tangle.  
I’d rather be the girl the magician disappears, 

the lovely target spinning for the knives, 
assistant who holds the hoops the cats 
jump through—anything to avoid the long climb 

and quick launch into space where only light 
will catch me every time.  Every landing
comes as a relief, the platform trembling 

beneath my feet, ache in my chest easing.  
If I crash into the net I have to wave and smile, 
pretend it doesn’t hurt to fall so far.

The Deadman

	        After Marvin Bell

The Deadman speaks in sentences 
but rarely paragraphs.  He wears boots 
with silver buckles and walks 
without a sound.  His hat and coat 
exaggerate his height.  Unlike other 
wrestlers, the Deadman doesn’t need 
applause to prove that he exists.  
He mostly moves above the waist, 
his gestures plain from the back row.  
The Deadman’s x-rays always blur.  
Likewise MRIs, though he holds 
perfectly still.  He controls light 
and fire with his mind.  His burns 
are first degree.  The Deadman 
works 19 days a year, but only 6
of those are matches.

Carrie Shipers

2017

He Watches the Weather Channel

^{after Reagan Lothes}

Because nothing else is on so early
in the morning when he drinks coffee
in an empty house. Because almanacs

are of limited use compared to satellites.
Because spring will have to come somehow
and cold reminds him which bones

Carrie Shipers

2017

Prayer to Our Lady of Waiting Rooms

Let the seats be plentiful and padded.  
Let the magazines be recent or let the book 
I’ve brought last until we can leave.
Let the TV on its bolted stand be off, 
muted, or showing something I can ignore—
weather, gameshows, CNN.  Let the room 
be mostly empty—no one shouting, sobbing, 
asking about my husband’s health.  
Let everyone be strangers except 
the staff.  Let the walls be freshly painted, 
soothing to behold.  Let my husband 
be there for a physical or routine checkup.

Carrie Shipers

2017

Poems

Self-Portrait as Aerialist

More by this poet

The Deadman

He Watches the Weather Channel

Prayer to Our Lady of Waiting Rooms

Poems

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Self-Portrait as Aerialist

More by this poet

The Deadman

He Watches the Weather Channel

Prayer to Our Lady of Waiting Rooms

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