Home / Columns / Poetry / Bess Houdini

Bess Houdini

May. 2, 2010
Google plus Linkedin Pinterest

Nights he straps me on his hips,
my thighs packed with awls
and jig saws. In the wings,
I'm invisible. He ether-breathes,
floats thick German dreams
all clotted cream and mutter,
mutter. Blood rusts through
the sheets but nothing scares
me anymore, not needles,
or ghosts, or the dark place
he hides me when he's done.

Think of the moon,
how it hangs sometimes,
on a locust's thin black bones.
Imagine the wire on his skin.

Diane Unterweger lives and writes in Nashotah, Wisconsin. Her poems have appeared in Free Verse, Luna Creciente, and UWM's Eat Local/Read Local program. She is working on a series of poems about magic and magicians.


Now that controversial strategist Steve Bannon has left his administration, will Donald Trump begin to pivot to the center?

Getting poll results. Please wait...