by Holly Appling

I am in love with a magician —

He comes home near midnight

& relaxes, undoes his slanted

Tuxedo shirt buttons, his body
Is always here & gone, the
Voice hangs in corners like bats —

Have I been gone long? He asks.
I never answer, only look back
& smile. Then he begins his act —

His white gloved hands each

Seem to hold a thing very close —

An alley fire gives enough light,

The homeless crowd in to look —

He says, this hand or that?
Quick darling, which do you pick?

That or this or that, you prick —
It’s a showy trick, only hypnosis
To get me to sleep, I sigh.

I am too electric & sick to sleep.

I grip the dream’s razor edge —
I am an egg with a wing-tip sticking out.

If I crack, this is what happens —

The moonlight understands,

Its beams illuminate the good

& terrible moments like the time

I danced the tango with a tulip —
Its calyx bit my shifting stamens,

Moonbeams fell everywhere
Through xylem & water, pale
Leaves turned translucent —

I asked for a kiss among halos.

The vertigo shocked my body,

My legs, my hips & neck, my lips —

The tango spun like a carousel

At top speed. The nausea awful —

Though I did not lie back, I ran,

I conquered, my sword swung

Light as a feather, against each
Dagger, I battled, I battled —

I trusted no one, not even

The black & white swan pawns
Floating in the castle moat.

The end is love-sick & filthy,
I must warn you, it happened
When I found my steel

Stiletto boot heel thrust
Into another soldier’s shoulder
Half-stuck in the muck &

My sudden switch-blade was

Angled at his pulsating jugular —

I barely heard his words,

I shouted, speak up! Speak, kid —
Just to ease the tension a bit,
A cherub pops into thought’s

Anniversary cake, wanting

To be anywhere else but here —

Just like me…

So no more shadows or tricks —
I will live as I want to be loved.
I will leave for the lands

I have always wanted to travel —
In a glitter a caravan passes.
I sprint & catch a gypsy’s hand.

The wagon lurches ahead again,

A jade elephant at its lead —

His muscles ripple in thunder.

I am awe-struck, I am sure my fingertip
Can touch his pure white tusk —
The jungle river propels its myth

Further & further as we journey

To the horizon, the last ring in green

Across a galloping into dreams —

Holly R. Appling lives in Canada.  Her poems have appeared in QWERTY, Carousel, The Writer’s Spot, Leaf Press and an obscure south Indian publication.

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