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.

Source: Poetry (December 2023)