I understand that like the top-hatted man in the
8pm show you have to pull off the disappearing act—
I get that you think the show is about that
The puff of chalk that passes as smoke,
The pull of the wand that electrifies air,
And the gasps in reveling ticketholders.
You and I were given the same tricks
Trapped in paraphrased versions of life
Watching ourselves watching the stars.
Let me tell you—I’m on the other side
Of the upright coffin. I’ve undone the performance
In pretending and chewing and opening the one thing
That you think is yours. Alone. I’m here
White, hungry, and inviting.