Houdini by Lindsay McLeod


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Houdini

Sometimes they pass me the key
without even knowing it from
their own mouths, their tongues
on the tip of a kiss, the way out

picking the locks and screwing
the tumblers from the inside
of what we once thought was a
safe as safe in love as houses

teeth to chew through the ropes
of a relationship breached by an
iceberg when only one of us can
fit on the floating door darling

an off ramp on a rocky road
where it all comes down to ice
cream, you scream, the police
come, it’s awkward

but when the plane goes down
this whole contortionist thing
comes in handy for folding
oneself back into the black box

but it’s all so, oh I don’t know…
almost anecdotal why I can’t
fall without breakage now, my
hip or my heart or my horseshoe

‘coz Spring doesn’t spring so well
any more not like it used to leap
from the highest diving board
into a trembling glass of water

the pool is so much shallower
since, and let’s face it so am I,
wrung out and wond’rin’ what
might swim beneath the splash

but still I climb toward a launch,
a hunk of hedonism in my pocket
to see what I might find behind
my cloud on the other side.



Lindsay McLeod

Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. He has won several prizes and awards and stuff for poetry and short fiction and published his first co-authored poetry collection, My Almost Heart, in 2015. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet. : twitter.com/offmcleod