I think of telling her
not to jump.
But it wouldn’t do any good.
Poised on the parapet,
addicted to obsession.
Her life too slender to grasp in retrospect,
too shallow to fathom in hindsight.
The broad Vltava nurtures,
gently cradling swans and riverboats.
Karluv bridge frames displays of
miniature paintings, beaded earrings, crystal necklaces.
Souvenirs of no use but to remember,
sold by brave new capitalists
to jaded young tourists.
Thirty statues, count ’em,
lined up to watch the show.
She leans on
Saint something or other, perhaps a king.
then dives free, a perfect 10.
Desiring to test her fragile wings
on a luminous spring morning in Prague.