Somersault Poem by doug bentley

we are no old-fashioned heroes
who fight a blind dragon or two
then retire into the forest
to warn off others in stories
just of how dragons are slain.


we have only litanies of loss
to demons who never die, who
can never be killed, (only out-
witted, pacified, subdued) :
each of us a library of disease.


and who recognizes us, the crazy
ones who live life as if it's some
sort of perfect dive-

a tumbling
off the high board into free fall,
quick somersault, waveless

arching exit through surface?