The Magician

-Chloe Garcia Roberts

for Genaro

When Michael raised his sword for you it ate you clean
like flame, maggots, the burning afterimage of the obscene

the wafer of a wound pressed between breath and flesh
as the broken part was healed under, held inside.

If you know how to see it, then you can never unknow it
the well placed mirror, the third hand, the veiled eye.

A magician, places his faith, in what others choose not to see.
Though always a lie believed, leaves its stain.

The trick is in the quick, the depth of the eyeholes,
the silk of the burn.

The heart that held something: now empty!
The hands that hurt: now birds!

I know the secret. It’s simple really.
You must create the storm to hold its eye.

You see everyone has two faces
the one they wear, the one they hang behind their hair

eyes bared beneath
like teeth.

For the strongest blades are not bright
they are undetectable

tissued in darkness,
cannibalizing their own core.

And a martyr, is a black hole that mercilessly kills
any escaping light

hoarding all the flame
for the altar.

Rotten flowers bloom just like sweet ones
the only difference is

what they open
can’t ever be undone.

Should the walls need crumbling,
may you raise your voice above the plane,

unleash something so broken,
it’s dangerous.

May the sharpness of your bravery
never curl.

For not all angels walk in beauty,
some are wingless, wreathed in scars.