Magic Hand
The mind is a box of tricks.
Fooled by his play of hide-the-rabbit,
it tells you there is an ace up that sleeve.
Or a bunch plucked from nothing
into a burst of sham finery.
He saws you in half while you smile,
hangs a dove from his fingers,
closes the velvet curtain.
You save the best illusion for last.
The one where you swallow razor blades,
one by one on a piece of string,
then spit them back up.
Jane Burn‘s poems have been featured in magazines such as The Rialto, Under The Radar, Butcher’s Dog, Iota Poetry, as well as anthologies from the Emma Press. Her first collection, nothing more to it than bubbles, has been published by Indigo Dreams. She also established the poetry site The Fat Damsel.