MAGIC SHOW

JOHN CIMINELLO

First the King of Diamonds disappears
and then the entire deck,
followed by my credibility as a magician
when the King falls out of my back pocket
and the box of cards becomes a store-bought shell,
empty and fake
for the parlor trick.
​
My target audience,
the small crowd best suited to
my thumbs and puns style of magic
of now you see it, now you don’t
is between the ages of four and seven,
faithful enough to believe the magic pencil
travels invisible from my hand
to their back pocket,
and gracious enough to include me
in their wonder and amazement
​when matter transforms
itself for their delight.

On his fifth birthday Zane asked,
“If you don’t believe in magic
what do you believe in?”
The world is filled with substitute marvels,
tricks of the trade
from politics to religion,
with debt-swap derivatives
to turn money earned with sweat
into futures and code,
then paper and promises,
and then it disappears into thin air
never again to appear
in my wallet, in my back pocket.

Last week, I found an old business card
from the Stone Castle Magic School,
where I learned my first sleight of hand
from a promo ad in MAD Magazine
and a quarter-sheet booklet
with black and white photos
to inspire a clumsy apprentice
to learn—never show off until
you own the technique,
and for those who believe,
never break the spell
or give away the wonder.
With a magician’s faith,
I snap my fingers
and palm the card
disappearing all evidence
with a flame and a flourish
as paper smoothly slips into thin air
​and reappears for safe keeping
in my back pocket.

THE GIRL WITH THE

​GETAWAY FACE

CHERYL HICKS

Painting