Houdini Holds the World

Houdini Holds the World

When he’d screwed the last
clamp tight, it seemed he’d built
a city on the backs of his hands,
metal towers shone in the light

of the desk lamp. And there he’d sit,
with steel gripping the terrain
of his skin, willing his knuckles
to crush enough for slipping a cuff

over and free. Those cuffs
like train tracks looping his wrists –
they got him everywhere fast;
a means of transport, so in city

after city he wore the world
like a suit. On tour, the holdings
of each nation – wood, iron, water –
not more than dust to shake off. In it

and out of it all at once.
In it with skill and struggle,
and then out, carried
through the streets. In it,

trapped alone at his desk,
unable even to read or write
with each finger clamped to itself.
The bones never did crack,

smarter than that, serving best
whole. Cities never rose
on the backs of his hands;
they floated willingly into the palms.