|
Houdini |
Don’t marry a magician,
her mother warned,
but from the day she kissed
your illusionist lips,
held your busker body,
she could not imagine
lying in the arms of an accountant.
What was magical about numbers?
They always added up.
Hungarian-proud
pulled a diamond ring
from behind her ear,
and offered a life of sequined spandex.
Dazzling and pliant,
she brings you props:
wand, rabbit, straitjacket—onstage,
and Mushroom Paprikash—
to the kitchen table at home.
She learned to never cringe,
simply watch as a dislocated
shoulder set free a straitjacket
and left the audience aghast.
When shackled and locked
in the confines of a milk can,
not even a shiver, you taught
her how you regurgitated
the key while being lowered.
Burying you beneath the earth
while your breath whispered her name
was the trick that induced nightmares.
Before this illusion, she rocked
in the Biedermeier chair, nodding
in rhythm to her own prayer,
hoping her mother heard, if not God,
Married magicians never
lose the front door key.
copyright 2014
Denise R.
Weuve |
