The Disappearing Act Poem by Ella Jones

Welcome to the show.

The lights are warm, the curtain's thin,
the spotlight finds her smile.

Welcome to the show.

Watch her step into the box,
a painted grin and polished shoes.
The magician tips his hat—
he promises wonder,
he promises awe.
But don't blink.
You might miss it.

Welcome to the show.

He saws her in half with a laugh.
Calls it spectacle.
Calls it drama.
Her voice? Just the squeak of hinges.
Her pain? Just part of the illusion.

Welcome to the show.

Balanced on the blade of applause.
Balanced on the edge of expectation.
Balanced in a dress stitched from silence.

Watch as she escapes the chains
they wrapped in velvet words:
Sweetheart.
Doll.
You're overreacting.

Sometimes these things aren't physical.
Let your body work itself out, that's what it's made for, right?

This is all in your head.
This is all in your head.
This is all in your head.

Welcome to the show.

She disappears into statistics.
Vanishes behind closed doors.
Swallowed in boardrooms, bedrooms, backrooms.
A puff of smoke where a woman once stood.

Now you see me,
Now you don't.

He is onstage for everyone to admire
While I am forced to hide my work,
My talents,
My accomplishments.

Welcome to the show.

Only when I serve the trick.
Only when I sweeten the act.
Only when I smile on cue.

She's too emotional.
She's too ambitious.
She's too much.
And not enough.

Welcome to the show.

They call it sleight of hand.
I call it history.
They call it showmanship.
I call it survival.

And here is the trick
they never saw coming:
you can only disappear a woman
so many times
before she learns
how to make herself
impossible to vanish.

Before she learns
how to catch the blade
mid-air,
how to crack open the lock
with her bare teeth,
how to step out of the box
with splinters in her palms
and steel in her spine.

And when the curtain falls,
it won't be his name they chant.
It won't be his hands they applaud.
It won't be his show anymore.

It will be mine.
It's always been mine.