To Be Houdini

I lie alone in Collin’s glass-stone home, Lily’s house. Mommy’s house.

Collin’s bed.

I turn on the TV, the local morning news—Prince William is engaged—and then the national news: a little girl in Texas is missing, Prince William is engaged.

I want to see more me-news—more Basecamp Berkeley hate. I want the story. The ocean’s doily edge flows out then fades then widens, like a pupil in inconsistent light. Sunlight saturates the shore’s wet sand; the window-wall frames the day, white-hot and quiet. The sea-fog glows. I go online.

I search “buy-cott Basecamp Berkeley.” Nothing. “Basecamp Berkeley hate.” Nothing. “Kay Ryan escape.” This:

Houdini

Each escape

involved some art,

some hokum, and

at least a brief

incomprehensible

exchange between

the man and metal

during which the

chains were not

so much broken

as he and they

blended. At the

end of each such   

mix he had to

extract himself. It

Was the hardest

part to get right

routinely: breaking

back into the   

same Houdini.

I’m engaged. I imagine calling Justin now—ending it. Or calling Collin. Lily is confused. I want to extract myself from Justin like a needle from fabric, a hand from water. Or not from Justin, from Berkeley. I love Justin. Like play-doh loves hands. I am pl—

My phone rings. “Hello?” 

Breaking back.