Only Parlor Tricks

Pinch a snapdragon and out comes

a skyful of words, its tongue a skewer

stuck with flowery intentions. 

I spin plates on sticks, escape

from handcuffs, perform

coin tricks—pennies fall

from thin air into my pockets.  Disappearance

is not a miracle, just smoke, a pencil cut

in two will always be returned intact, but

don’t ask me to smooth a run

in my stocking, set the clocks, repair

the white-blood stem of the daffodil

trumpeting for my assistance—

I can guess what card you’re holding,

but I’m no expert.  This flicker isn’t celestial

light but the dying lamp in the parlor.  I sprawl

a shadow between me and empty chairs, hold

my breath as I pull silk scarves from my top hat—

colored teardrops pile to the floor.