The Conjuror
The conjuror shakes his hand,
sells you two coins
for the price of three;
you applaud the deal that leaves you
stuck on wonder
barely sure of what was ever
yours to keep
and yours to give.
Moving swiftly on,
his beguiling eyes
are juggling hearts,
discarding them.
A wedding ring goes missing,
turns up beneath a pillow.
A white can i buy propecia online dove,
a handkerchief
flourished from his second skin:
a sorcerer’s suit
devised for tapered cards,
broken hearts,
double-headed coins
and under that
the shirt
his mother dressed him in.
Julia Stothard is a technical and creative writer living in Middlesex. Poems most recently published in Orbis, Iota, Brittle Star and Pulsar Webzine.