“It’s only a pack of cards” she says
and he watches her hands
as she shuffles and deals,
holds up the heart that he chose
and folded deep into the pack
only seconds ago.
She’s smiling that half smile
that intrigues and repels,
and he wants to know what she did
but all she will say is
“It’s only a pack of cards”
and she shows him again
and he watches her hands,
and again, and he watches
her eyes, and again
and he asks and he asks,
’til she stands with a shrug,
and tells him it’s magic.
Sarah writes poems 