Prestidigitation
by David Prather
The first time I saw magic
it was in a deck of cards, easy
as plucking hearts right out of the air.
I believed in things like Santa Claus
and God. I tried to find mysteries
in smoke and mirrors, secrets
my father kept in his pockets
and under his hat. He taught me
how to trick a fish from water,
refract the light. The next time
was a vanishing act—my grandfather
disappeared into the earth
in his abracadabra box. Houdini
proved there’s no slipping free
from that. And then there was the way
my mother made something
from nothing—soup from water
and what-little-was-left, tea
from sassafras torn up and steeped,
salad from nettles scoured of poison.
One day, I will tug the cuff of my sleeve,
watch all those starlings rush out.
David B. Prather is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2019), and his collection, Bending Light with Bare Hands, will be published by Fernwood Press. His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, Cutleaf, OPEN: Journal of Arts And Letters, Colorado Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, etc. He has worked as an English professor and as an editor, and he is currently a reader for Suburbia Journal.
