On a Trampoline Not Jumping
by Stapleton Nash, Regular Contributor

 

Headed for Splitsville

Thrown off our orbit

Coming for closure and staying for coming–

Or not; for talking, for just you, talking,

Not conversation, mind you, but talking,

You were always good at that part.

 

The trampoline was covered in yellow flowers, fallen 

From I don’t know where, yellow pollen

Falling like snow on them, but the night was warm. The plain, endless,

The diamond sky above them as they lie there, a hand on her waist.

They’re not us. They’re actors, playing us. They don’t look much like us.

The hand goes to her waist, delicate moth-wing fingertips,

Just under the edge of the shirt; talking, smiling.

The woman on her back is beautiful; not smiling, but she listens.

The gentle curves and angles of her face are awash in starlight but

If it were me, on that trampoline, 

I would not be able to stop sneezing, and if it was you,

Smiling over me like a friendly moon,

I would not allow your ticklish hand, especially since

I have hives, now, from the pollen. 

 

If you did come back, if you wanted to lie with me,

To double-bounce me, until I screamed, to laugh

At my screaming, so I’d blush, then I mean to tell you,

I want my good memories to stay good and

The bad memories to stay bad; I am tired of switching,

I am tired of changing my song every other day,

I am tired of using things other than for their intended purposes.

A trampoline is not for lying, or for lying down.

I hope the next moment finds me on the grass, I hope the ground

Does not move beneath me, that the steadiness below

Matches some steadiness above me, that the face,

Unlike any moon, does not change or move, 

I hope the hard flatness of the land never ends.

The grass will tickle me and I’ll sneeze, but it’ll be alright,

Because I’ll take an antihistamine and the hand on my waist

Won’t hurt, and the sky, no matter the weather,

Won’t be lying. 

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