Mrs Houdini
For Beatrice
Monday, Milwaukee. I count his keys
into the false hem, oil each cuff,
test every lock with a hairpin. My job.
I sew his name in gold. Mine in black.
On the bill they've spelled my name with one s.
Bess, Bessie, Mrs – take your pick.
Half of vaudeville thinks I'm the assistant.
The assistant. I am the trick.
Then the kiss, front row craning, my mouth
opening his, the little key crossing over
on the tip of my tongue,
and down he goes into my water in his chains.
Three minutes is the drum's whole job.
I stand where he can find the shape of me
through eight foot of glass and thrash,
my two feet planted on the boards like proof.
I've a spare in my chignon, one in my heel,
a third place I'll not put in print.
Which of us escapes? He's out. Wet. Grinning.
Off it comes, whatever the irons left.
He can't slip a lock I haven't
loosened first – though he'll take
the bow for it, the gasp, the papers.
The keys are mine. The hands are mine.
Fifty towns a year I lock that man up
and fifty towns a year he gets himself out
and walks back to the hands he can't slip.
The papers: he swallowed nothing. That was me.