Poetry by Hannah Kroonblawd

The Magician Makes a Rabbit Disappear

Magic is fake, says the little boy next to me.
We are sitting in the back row, straining to see
scarves pouring out of sleeves, coins floating
from one side of the room to the other.

Maybe the rabbit isn’t a rabbit at all.
Maybe it’s a girl, the kind of girl
known to disappear. I watch the magician—

all it takes is a moment of flight,
fingers fluttering like wings. All it takes
is anticipation and a box full of mirrors.

Vanishing is process and practice. Vanishing
means someone looks away or looks
at the wrong place at the right moment.
I’ll stay for the last part of the trick

because I already know what follows:
a body behind glass, shivering,
the box unfolding with a word.

Hannah Kroonblawd is an MFA candidate in poetry at Oregon State University, where her thesis work explores the loss of a stillborn sister by way of Sophocles' Antigone. Hannah's poems can be found in or are forthcoming fromSycamore ReviewThe Chattahoochee Review, and BOAAT, among others