Five Poems by David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton

 

Houdini’s secret

 

His real magic was not outside,

not in decks of

cards or even

regulation handcuffs he’d swipe off

his wrists

like a spider’s thread:

His real magic was within: He          

remade himself,

turned himself in

-side out the way he turned straitjackets inside

out while

suspended

between tall buildings, dangling upside

down from

rope by his

ankles: The slight man of huge ambition

used sleight-of-hand to

metamorphose from

scrawny to muscular, learned to button

his shirts and tux

with his left hand,

learned to lift objects from the floor with

his toes or tongue:

Harry Houdini

knew everyone is handcuffed, shackled,

enchained,

snared in cages,

locked into jail cells: He knew we all

long to escape the

glass walls that

confine us to a locked closet of water

where we cannot

breathe:

We all long to shed our brittle snake

skin, to emerge

sleek,

bare, glistening, dripping,

gleaming,

unashamed

Radiance

 

There were ancient Buddhas in a cave nearby.

At 7, a boy wins first place for his age in the Chip Putt & Drive Tournament.

Your colleague showed off the garnet he had procured for his niece. A redhead.

You yourself have never been at home catching or throwing balls. Or putting.

You ride the MWR bus to the Lantern Festival in Nagasaki.

You don’t swim, either. Your spouse speculates your near-sightedness is the issue.

The woman, the man, and their child were close enough to be vaporized.

Vim means energy, enthusiasm, oomph.

The man’s mother, fourteen miles away, died of thyroid cancer years later.

Is oomph Yiddish? I know chutzpah is.

The colleague down from the northern capital refilled your saké cup graciously.

Chanukah is the Festival of Lights. In darkness, Diwali and Kwanzaa too remind us of light.

You took the train to Kyoto and visited several Zen monasteries. It started to rain.

The star on the top of that Christmas tree shimmers like a celestial diamond.

 

 

On the side

Copper catches his reflection in the dusky window and growls. I close the blinds. To be on the safe side. I plug in the nightlight. Which illuminates the dark side of the moon. Which awakens the lunar module from its long nap. It trundles across the Sea of Tranquility, which has no water despite its name. The module yearns to return to mining turquoise and silver, then transporting them via conveyor belt to the bracelet plant in Phoenix. Plants around the plant are dying of thirst, despite record deluges. One landed a record contract. Another contracted a coronavirus variant. A corona is an aura of gas around the sun. The moon doesn’t have a corona, although it would like one. With lime. During the lunar eclipse, eleven plants crossed the picket line after a game of Red Light Green Light. Copper in sterling silver turns green from moisture. But if the light is red, you have to stop. In the game. I read the directions. Remember: Avoid your reflection in windows. If you do glimpse it, avoid growling. To be on the safe side.

An apple a day keeps the—what?—away

 

An apple a day keeps the doctor away?

What’s wrong with doctors?

 

Mom went to them plenty, until she got her fill,

too many saying she needed to see a psychiatrist.

 

It took me 10 years

after she was gone

to figure it out:

 

The psychiatrist doctor

is what she meant—keep him away

& your secrets are safe.

 

Then I myself became one—

a psychiatrist—

& all those apples

 

turned out to be

a waste

A mighty fortress

 

Years after you’re gone, Mom, I find leftover goods:

scarves you wore (or never wore), clothes, shoes, photos:

 

in boxes & plastic bags, sealed, or the ends rolled up

& fastened with wooden clothespins.

 

Were all those

 

bags,

piles,

boxes

 

some sort	of bulwark,
a wall	of fire
-resistant	bricks
used	by
the	smartest

 

Piggy to brace the house against

the Big Bad Wolf’s tornado breath?

 

Or were they meant not to keep something out

but to

keep something in,

s t r a i n i n g   t o   c  o  n  t  a  i  n

a grief that threatened to annihilate your world?*

 

 

Is this what you do when your mother

is ripped from you when you’re 2?

 

Maybe if you save everything, nobody dies

or leaves.

 

____________

* Or had that grief become

the   foundation	of	your	world___ ?

 

David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton (he/him) is a Denver-based writer and semi-retired physician of Irish, Scottish, and English ancestry. His poems have been recently curated in One Sentence Poems, Red Eft Review, and dadakuku. He has an MFA from Regis University. He has worked as a bookseller, educator, physician, and healthcare administrator. Born in Texas, he has lived in Oklahoma, North Carolina, Washington, D.C., the Pacific Northwest, Hawaii, Spain, and Kuwait. In 2021 he retired as a Captain (O-6) from the U.S. Navy. He was Runner Up for the Lighthouse Writers Workshop Lit Fest Veterans Writing Award in 2021. He has been married to Michelle, an elementary school teacher, for decades. They have six grown children who live adventurous and inspiring lives, seven grandchildren, and live with Summit and Copper, miniature poodles.