Abracadabra
How many hours have I wasted
trying to turn this into that, a rabbit
and a hat, a woman whose body
can split into three separate pieces.
This is my idea of magic, hiding
what exists in plain sight:
an overbite, a sparkle
of gray hair at the temples, a sag
at the side of an arm. And still,
what alarm when I see through
my own illusions, catch a glimpse
of a woman transported
into a restaurant window who couldn’t,
will never be me. I never had
a family, no children who would
allow me to age backwards or see
my own face filtered through
the lens of love. It’s hard
to adore something you never
drug into existence yourself,
never saw fit to copy, each version
brighter than the last, like a string
of knotted scarves you can pull
forever out of a sleeve. It’s easier
to believe every iteration
surpasses the past, that new flesh
refines itself, poreless and pink.
But it’s only me standing
in the cabinet, hand over a lever, waiting
to disintegrate in the dark.
