The Juggler

A poem for America

The Juggler, 1943, by Marc Chagall

The Juggler 

He hasn’t much money.
He can balance a ball or pin 

on his right or left stump
for whole moments in time. 

It’s keeping things in air 
that’s killing him.

It’s the thought
of lifting a strand

of hair from the face
of his sleeping daughter. 

It’s remembering
the way he kept the sky

confused with falling
and rising objects, dazzled

too young by the way they held
for a moment, above, 

before falling back 
to his open palms.

As a boy he danced 
the streets, his eyes to the sky

following always
what his hands hurled into it. 

Never once did he notice
the dirt beneath his feet.

It’s remembering the crowds, 
the way they gathered,

the way they left believing
their lives less complicated. 

Tonight he’s wrapping
his stumps in rags.

He’s remembering how
to take one hand 

in the other,
to bow his head

and close his eyes
when talking to his God.