Magritte’s Daemon
by Adam Vines
René, don’t turn your back to me.
Pull your ear from the gramophone,
take off your derby and black mackintosh,
loosen your knickers. You can hang me
in your armoire; I’ll always kick the door open.
You can cover my head with a dinner napkin
as if I were cold peas and carrots.
I know your tricks.
My eyes are the eggs you’re so fond of,
the ones that neither hatch nor spoil.
When you leave the parlor,
the two pelota players
trace with their cestas
the maple grains emanating from my hip.
They know my age.
When you tightened the laced collar
with your brush, slipping me into that Puritan frock
under the boughs heavy with colorful birds,
did you really believe
I wouldn’t take a bite out of one?
