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[68] S culpture : T he Y o u ng Ac r o bat From a rolled up sleeve, one strong arm thrusts the baby high with a force not unlike a birth, the push away from home, familiar seas. Aloft, the infant leans forward on air, as if to ask why am I here, the ground’s a long way down. Naked, he lies there, his sex masked by a patch of cloth, pawn of a hand’s skill, nimble toes curled under. His tiny fingers separate, the index of the left hand and the little finger of the right slightly raised as if about to grasp what appears beyond his reach, his mother perhaps, who may also be an artist of the ring: leaping on and off a horse’s back, somersaulting to a waltz, twirling by her hair or her teeth. Helpless to wend his way to her arms, he must bear the thrill of heights, the smell of fear, the seed of wanting more than feeling safe, this danger his to claim, balanced in a father’s hand, eyes on hold, learning to be perfectly still. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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