Abracadabra

How many hours have I wasted

            trying to turn this into that, a rabbit

and a hat, a woman whose body

            can split into three separate pieces.

This is my idea of magic, hiding

            what exists in plain sight:

an overbite, a sparkle

            of gray hair at the temples, a sag

at the side of an arm. And still,

            what alarm when I see through

my own illusions, catch a glimpse

            of a woman transported

into a restaurant window who couldn’t,

            will never be me. I never had

a family, no children who would

            allow me to age backwards or see

my own face filtered through

            the lens of love. It’s hard

to adore something you never

            drug into existence yourself,

never saw fit to copy, each version

            brighter than the last, like a string

of knotted scarves you can pull

            forever out of a sleeve. It’s easier

to believe every iteration

            surpasses the past, that new flesh

refines itself, poreless and pink.

            But it’s only me standing

in the cabinet, hand over a lever, waiting

            to disintegrate in the dark.