The Magician's Wife
by Sabrina L'Heureux
Her hands are worn; palms
like creased paper, a calloused map
of life, without sleight of hand,
no magic to speak of. She needs
touch to survive -- the soft pressure
of dough clinging to her knuckles,
the care spent to put each hair
in place, pins held taut between her lips.
The radishes and tulips pulled from the ground
leave earth's smudges on her dress;
loose thread dangles from the hem.
She knows the world through this instrument
of no applause, like the blind
her hands create the world before her
touch by touch, in silence.
Sometimes, she delights
in an imagined crack of the wand,
his most prized possession, made of yew
from the tree at the river's edge.
Never has it cracked for her,
deigned to leave its mark upon her kitchen
no red pop-up roses or doves
reserved for her cold window sill.
Not beautiful enough to be made
to disappear, she scuttles about
in silence, while he twirls flowers into being,
carves the living into puzzles,
and replaces them, piece by piece.
And she, in her ache to be included,
presses her nose to the glass box,
tries to take herself apart,
asks to be let in.
is a recent graduate of the Creative Writing program at the University of Victoria, British Columbia. She loves reading medieval literature, including old French texts and anything Irish. She currently teaches French and English in Northern BC, and her poetry recently won a Poetry Prize from Utmost Christian Writers. She says, "my favourite fruit would have to be pineapple, even from a can."
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