The Great Legerdemain
                                                      Jessica Jacobs

 

 

 

 

She pulls up to her childhood home and there is the magic 

man, behind plate glass in pajama pants and navy 
 

sport coat; floor lamp spot, stage-left. For his first 

trick, backlit light plus outside night equals glass that goes 
 

one way. She sees only him and so does he. Both watch his lips 

shape the heart-known words, I am the Great 
 

Legerdemain, sleight of hand if not of frame—patter to draw 

laughter, that larger action to cover the small 
 

moment the coin drops from his sleeve to flow 

the knuckled rill of his hand. Watch him perform
 

The Muscle Pass, The French Drop, the furrowed brow at fallen

coin, which makes her want to look away from seeing past 
 

the illusion of seeing. This man who made her world just so

with a willed choreography of movement and time,
 

this gift her father gave her: to first 

know wonder, before the necessary work of it.