And finally you're here.

Magdalena Horvat
Handcuffs


And finally you're here, and want to fall.
My hands handcuff your wrists, yet your
palms don't circle mine, even though I'm
the one standing; you're suspended in air.
Will I let go, will you get hurt if you move
24 stories down? You aren't light, but I do

not mind holding you and telling you all
about the neighbours below. Ella Fitzgerald
lived here once. I used to hear her practising
at odd hours, singing "Didn't mean a word I
said". And when she moved away, Kate Bush
moved in, Ms. I-just-know-that-something-

good-is-gonna-happen. The others I never
knew much; when trains passed, I'd listen
to them instead. I wish you'd never come in
the first place, I knew you'd go straight for
the glass door, and I get vertigo holding you
by your wrists like this, my palms sweaty

already, but how can I let go? You're finally
here, lying to me that falling is flying – that
old familiar fib. But no man ever lands on
his feet; he always breaks, of course, a rib.