The Magician at the Woodpile

The blue tarp is covered in little pools
of water that shimmer like sequins
everywhere a wrinkle has gathered. I pull
it off with a flourish and start digging through
the kindling and logs until I find the dicks,
all of them, hidden in the back of the pile.
The dicks I took in my mouth. The dicks
that didn’t ask permission. The dicks I loved
and the dicks I never really knew. I remember
holding them in my hands—how soft the skin,
how various the shapes—and cooing to each one,
You’re the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,
as if wonder were the only register my voice
could work in. Now I stack the wood the way
the dicks must have learned at camp,
with the kindling at the bottom and the big
logs on top. I add the dicks last, like a little pink
crown of thorns. Then I light the whole thing on fire.
I expect to see spiders come running out, rats
even. I expect to hear screams. But there’s nothing.
Just a fire making me warm, even as the sun
goes down at my back, everything but my face
suddenly in darkness, like I’m performing
a magic trick, like the magic trick is me.