The Disappearing Act

Poem By Chris Tusa

I sill remember my father, on Sunday nights,
When he dressed up and played magician,
smiling as he pulled bright blue handkerchiefs
from the tiny white mouth of his fist,
his calloused hands shuffling marked playing cards,
the dog barking at its shadow on the wall,
my mother laying in a black coffin box,
her pale white body sawed into pieces,
the smiling torso, the wiggling toes,
Daddy’s magic wand hovering over her,
the final secret trick none of us knew
tucked up his shiny tuxedo sleeve.

Comments about The Disappearing Act

I am intrigued by this and will send you my copy of 'The Magician' about my own grandfather. You write very well and I'm going to be reading more of your stuff. Raynette


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Other poems of TUSA

Alzheimer’s

My grandmother’s teeth stare at her
from a mason jar on the nightstand.

The radio turns itself on,

Ode To Gumbo

after Sue Owen

Born from flour anointed with oil,
from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath,

Snow White, To The Prince

after Susan Thomas

Truth is, my life was no fairytale,
that afternoon, I lay, a smiling corpse

Prozac

Divine and white,
you’re an aspirin fit for the gods,
the powdery ghost of Gandhi
conjured into a bottle,

The Tooth Fairy On Welfare

A sudden surge of boys
with their smiles punched out,
care of a local Tough Man contest.
It was all I needed

Photograph Of A Missing Girl In A Barbershop Window

You stand in the gray air,
your face a mirror reflecting
the dark shadows of trees.
Clouds drift in the brown water