Shuffle

So the magician had gone through ten rabbits [saws, scarves, doves] without knowing it; they all pulled the same. They pulled long and not long (how groggy
the spotlight, how the sun was also stuttered). They all cooked the same, too:
slick petals, sticky eyes. He had that habit of tricking fountains out of coal spills.
The act finally ended in hoops of fire—the animals and pretty girls always died
tumbling with black [felt] lungs, and even the other props [knives, hats, sequins]
rusted and crumbled in an attempt to escape. Then the curtain came down, the
lights went up: You turn—you always turn—but the room is a box stuck with
swords and he is a pile of empty clothes and handcuffs. (He is also running.) The
echo of is this your card: a language of palm and coin streaming out of your ears now: the weight of the ace up your sleeve.

— Kristin Abraham