Bess Houdini Rehearses Desire in the Modern World
by Sandra Yannone
My handcuff dreams were different
Than his. He was the magician,
The one who could wave his hands
Across a woman’s body, make her want
To fall through trap doors, coax her
To contort her body to avoid the swords’
blades, while I wanted the thrill of waving
her back to the breathy amazement of the crowd,
then realize the awe was us, the only two
in the room, that my hands were not a trick
against her, that the fog in the room was not
the timed smoke on stage screening her
from view, but the steam as I drew the bath
and invited her in.
Under the lights, she drew me in
While the steam leaned into our bodies,
Whispered it wet kisses on our wrists.
When she turned to look in the mirror,
I saw her face was the reflection
Of want, so I backed against the wall
To let her fill the room, shut my eyes,
And waited for her answer
To unlock me. But in that room
I opened only to the damp
Residue of before. I flashed my hand
Over the mirror to try to find her
Behind the steamed glass. All that was left,
A towel heaped on the tile floor,
Like the witch in The Wizard of Oz
After the one seeking the heart
Douses her with water. My hands
Slid along the tub’s porcelain edge, fumbled
For the chrome knobs to turn off
The water, tried once more
To bring her back from the steam.
And for once I got half of what I wanted.
I was the magician, and she had disappeared.