Mary Lou Buschi holds an MFA in poetry from Warren Wilson College and a Master of Science in Urban Education from Mercy College. She has taught creative writing and literature in the SPS division of New York University. Currently, she is a special education teacher in the Bronx. Her poems have appeared in Hermeneutic Chaos, Thrush, Radar, Field, Yellow Chair Review, among others. She lives in Piermont with Jeff and Nate.
The Place of No Magic
It's somewhere over a bridge made of triangles (for obvious reasons). Wallets never burst into flame, there's nothing hiding in anyone's ear, and rabbits are just rabbits. There's a peace there that we cannot imagine because we have been taught tricks. The disappearing cabinet, the guy at the party who doesn't know how to introduce himself, "Pick a card," or better, he unpacks 100 scarves from his palm to help you fall in love. The truth is I hate magicians only slightly less than clowns—so starved for attention that they are willing to hold their breath underwater while wearing a straight jacket. They do it because we watch them and we wait, and maybe hope, a little, that they fail. Hope that the trick ends in death and the bridge to that place, the place of no magic appears because we want an access point, a slight of hand, where a spectacle in a cape with a wand can vanish through those triangular shapes.