Allison LaSorda

Place names surviving

There’s an acrobatic trick
you mastered then failed,

throwing your body
off the pedestrian bridge
all pink welts and angles,
an obtuse splash.

Staved off embarrassment
with a hoot as you surfaced,
tanned skin molten in the river algae.
Your eyes were on the cormorants.

As you climbed, apologies,
your machinery chugging vertical,
I yawned all feline, cooed
and patted you dry.

You didn’t test the air.
Stretch. Ask if it was
calling for thunder. Tell me
the coordinates of your flip.