The Disappearing Act Poem by Chris Tusa

I sill remember my father, on Sunday nights,
When he dressed up and played magician,
smiling as he pulled bright blue handkerchiefs
from the tiny white mouth of his fist,
his calloused hands shuffling marked playing cards,
the dog barking at its shadow on the wall,
my mother laying in a black coffin box,
her pale white body sawed into pieces,
the smiling torso, the wiggling toes,
Daddy’s magic wand hovering over her,
the final secret trick none of us knew
tucked up his shiny tuxedo sleeve.