Le Cygne

Tightrope Walker

Once she would scribble

in a small bedazzled diary,

Telling her dear friend

all her hopes and dreams

of being a tightrope walker,

of being a lion tamer,

of being a writer;

She told it everything

she had to tell.

Another year older

and the entries got darker.

Father left us without saying goodbye,

Mother is deathly ill;

Emma says she'll most likely die before winter.

Mr. Dearing agrees.

Mother pulled through,

She is healthy now.

She watches me practice the tightrope,

pretend the Sheepdog is a Lion,

write in the brand new leather-bound notebook.

That was the year Mr. Dearing shot mother.

It was midnight.

She did not scream.

Did not beg for mercy.

Closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.

Neither knew we were behind the door.

Hand over Emma's mouth,

“Don't scream. Don't scream.

He'll hear. He'll hear.”

Back to the bedroom,

under our beds,

keep your heads,

keep your heads.

He comes in,

“Come out, come out.”

He only wants to talk.

Gullible Emma crawls from the bed:

'No Emma, no.'

He smiles sickly-sweet

“It's alright, don't retreat.”

She knows what’s next,

flees the room,

he chases: fear.

“Run, Emma, run.”

She’s on the lawn.

Scramble out,

Chase and find,

Keep her safe,

safety not in mind.

He's locked the door.

Out the window:

“Tightrope walker, tightrope walker.”