The Whip Master’s Assistant
Waiting outside
the big top for the promised tornado:
the sky is pregnant with creams, blues
fresh as veins on the back of hands,
layers of grey, countless and exact.
Lightning flares,
electric pink at the core, spills
into nearby clouds- roses bloom and close
with terrific speed; static, flared fully open,
spectacular for only an instant, then gone,
a retinal imprint.
The sound- sharp and deep,
a gong splitting in two- is barely delayed.
Very like the sonic boom of the bullwhip
she is learning to stand in front of, a stage act
where she holds plastic roses and newspaper
at arms length for decapitation or shredding.
She still blinks at the whip, but is steady,
eager even, in the face of the storm,
finds it easier to trust ruthless indifference
than human error.
But the pleasant resignation, the thrill of fear
relaxing into fate: familiar.
