T.J. Sandella: Abracadabra

Think of Harry Houdini in a straitjacket
suspended over a busy city street,
or think of him clawing at his throat 
in a Chinese Water Torture Cell. 
He wanted to be an actor, you know,
and all of those performances he perfected
were only ever meant to be a stepping-stone
to the silver screen. Did he call it failure—
having spent more time wrapped up in chains
than in the arms of a leading lady? Or did he realize 
that, like all of us, he found a way
to become the story he told himself?

Houdini claimed he could withstand any blow,
and night after night men lined up to take their shots—
it could hardly be called a trick. He was buried alive 
three times, but it was a jab from a seventeen-year-old kid
that killed him. I’m asking you to think
of his ruptured appendix, his organ leaking blood 
like milk from a cracked glass.

Tonight, I hope you have someone
you love, but I hope that person is on a business trip
to North Dakota or the moon or at least picking up bread 
from the grocery store. For now, it’s just you and me
and we don’t have to whisper these questions.
How many blows can we take? How many
sacrifices can we make? 

And if what we want is this bubble
of escape—a few soundless minutes underwater
to savor our thoughts, our loved ones
stuck in traffic—how long before we perform 
those desperate, death-defying tricks? How long 
until we become what we’ve always wanted to be?