It's All in the Hands

      My body convulses violently,
my mind thick with panic, as I try
to keep the air inside my lungs.
     I look outside the glass, at the
throws of onlookers cast in walkway
lights. Many are still caught in the
thrill of the act. Most see that the act
has been dropped.
     My fists relax and contract with-
out will, as I try hard to focus on any-
thing, anything other then the sharp
pressure against the back of my throat.
     The water remains detached,
passing over my movements with
complete ambivalence.
     Stage lights are like fire against
my eyes, as my vision flickers on the
edge of black.
     My legs are shaking now, the water
becoming thick with a wash of a churning
thrush.
     I tug feebly at my bindings, the
ropes and metal biting back as the knots
become tighter and tighter against my wrist.
     I hear my heart in my ears, its
only company the dulled screams of
the crowd. I cannot tell if it is out of
fear or thrill.
     On instinct my mouth opens
and draws in air, though it is not air
but a sickening rush of cold water.
     As I feel myself falling, I
turn to see my assistant stone faced by
the side of the stage, a pair of familiar
keys dancing in her hands.