Edges, Palms

The Magician as a Boy

Good with his hands and fond
of edges, he collected bottle caps
that cut his palms, and speckled stones
he'd lick to shining, the polish
full speed in his rock tumbler.
Once he freed a feather, blue
and caught in prickly shrubs.
He held it to his lips: a little thrill
to wonder if the bird flew lopsided
or was lame and had bled,
would want him now tender.

Mary Ann Samyn