jackknife
my ballet dancer’s
highs and lows
perfect in the spotlight
afterward no cake allowed
my suburb’s left the hill and slid
onto this once fertile plane
my median self, valorised
to an irredentist instant
like stuff-in-the-carbs and
what-the-hell and what’s-
the-good-of-all-that
discipline when it comes
to baking memories
of swings and roundabouts
into a flashed-back life
just for the sake of it