Double Kodachi

When we ended, the magic was gone: smoke and mirrors. She was the volunteer I chose long ago for an effect where I poured her a drink from an empty can. Years later, I asked for her hand as the nerve wrecking finale to a show I did half a world away for a mix of strangers and soon-to-be relatives. At every gig, I would tear our wedding photo to pieces, burn it and put it back together.

Since the split, I discovered a way of expression that I had shortchanged all along as a sidekick. It felt more real- the opposite of secrets and illusions. It was like a new relationship. I didn’t realize how healing poetry was on its own, out of the shadows of notebooks and in the company of those who came to hear it. Where magic made people smile, poetry made them cry. The pen was the mightier sword, I thought.

I recently co-wrote a poem about what happened- how one house broke in two. This poem was different. It spoke to her side of the story through a perspective beyond my own. Writing it put ghosts to rest and blessed the broken house I now raise my kid in. I debuted this poem at a show where I felt ready to let magic return as the visual for two stories becoming one- a sharp contrast to one house becoming two. Where poems made people cry, magic made them smile.

I forgot that I needed its joy. Moreover, I forgot that both sides needed each other. They were two swords that once moved together: a double Kodachi. While I gave words time to carve their own path, I let the wonders I once knew vanish like an ancient alphabet into a past I disowned. After a year apart, it’s time to reunite the lost halves in an ensemble show that will bring together old friends from the age of magic with new friends from the age of mics. I invite you to join me on Saturday Sept. 7 for When Magic Found Poetry.

The show line-up and ticket link drops next week. Save the date. It will be a celebration that I can’t to share with you.