Not so long ago, she was in prime shape,
thrilling audiences each weekend 
with her solo act under the big top.
Suspended from a perilous vantage
high above the stage, she contorted
her limber body around the trapeze
and her muscles rippled from exertion.

She spun wildly, flinging her braided hair
like a bullwhip, and at the very end
would perform a quadruple full twist
to dismount, the crowd beginning to cheer
before her feet had even touched the mat.
One evening, her hand lingered on the bar
a bit too long; she over-rotated

only a few degrees, and when she landed
off her mark, her pinky toe snapped in half.
She smiled through the shock, taking in 
a well-deserved reward of thunderous 
applause, then exited behind the curtain 
after the spotlight went black, the same 
as every show since she could recall. 

What seemed a minor injury took months 
to heal. But worse, the memory 
of that imperfect finish frayed her nerves:
she lost confidence in stunts she used to do 
with eyes closed, training was a painful chore,
she missed rehearsals. Her coach grew impatient.
The circus declined to renew her contract.

Now in her late twenties, she tumbles through 
various jobs while she goes back to school. 
Some day she wants to be a talent scout 
for her home country’s gymnastics team.
In the meantime, she tutors algebra,
works a shift at an upscale restaurant,
and freelances as a babysitter.

She maintains her physique as best she can
through a daily routine of exercise 
that starts, without fail, the hour before dawn.
Once in a while, she suddenly wakes up
from a recurring dream where she can still hear
the sound it made when that tiny bone
at the tip of her foot broke with a pop.