Magician’s Girl

You’ll know when. My gossamer singlet flushes

           to its ends in fire. The black hats, too, begin

to hate you. One wrong word & they curl their brims

to reveal knives. By Thursday, the floor translates

your footfalls as Morse code. At your slow soft shoe,

           the oubliette opens. Another narrow not-death

& the curtains become girls again. They leave

you again. They don’t love you like Mother does,

bound to the velvet board, febrile Mother willing

           your water-tank, your white-gloved touch,

the part of her night where she is finally a half

of you. Despite the involvement of blades. Despite

my holding-down hands, their quiver. She knows

           about your knob-kneed bedmates, their soft

white hair. Girls lost in the long warren

of your arms. Big-toothed girls, girls who disappear

& disappear. You blame yourself. Why? You

           don’t know that what you do in the dark

of your room—I do it too? Watch closely. Here

are my man’s hands. Here is my girl’s mouth, speaking—