Spotting Susan on Liz’s front lawn
she attempts a back handspring
like practice for the Olympics,
nothing less than ten on floor.
Arms up, she tossed herself over
like a frog back flipping off a lily pad.
My hand, unprepared, on her lower back,
waiting to heave-ho if needed
like male cheerleaders chucking
mannequin-girls, shouting “be aggressive,”
into the air or over their shoulders
at university football games,
Susan kneed my forehead.
I flew to the ground, beer can
floating toward the house. She landed
on her head then collapsed like a dummy
thrown from the second floor window.
Her feet, heels-first, crashed into my stomach.
Vomit shot from my mouth in a circular splash
like when tree frogs dive into ponds.
