The Lady Vanishes

First, there’s The Spirit Carpenter

     Drives the Nail of Conviction

with The Hammer of Truth,

followed by The Animated Guitar—

     fingerless music echoing

like a stare in a hall of mirrors,

and Children of the Scissors,

     a daisy-chain of faceless dolls

in trapezoidal dresses

suspended in mid-air

     like convicts on trapezes.

Then I enter the box

feet first—winter onion

     putting down shoots.

Many things do not exist for me:

tree trunks in their mulchy ascendance,

     photographs like paper mirrors

that have no choice

but to remember a smile,

     the inevitable approach of Love,

which can’t be diverted

like a train from its station,

     and impenetrable Beauty.

Even the face of a handsome woman

isn’t immune to a frown.

     In the lobby, the trick mirror

returns everyone’s reflection

as a bouquet of flowers.

     Unlike the fantastic orange tree

that bears fruit instantly—

my sweetness won’t ripen.

     Sawed in two, cloistered

by curtains, or some other way

secreted from view, I’m revealed.

     To everyone’s amazement,

I emerge intact to applause.