The Woman Being Sawed In Half

is always smiling.

The woman being sawed in half
is a cake my sister bakes
for her son’s eighth birthday.
Three cake mixes, five bowls of icing
and there she is, a blue-dressed,
pink-shoed, lying-flat-on-her-back-cake-woman.
The saw, tin foiled and toothy,
slices through her abdomen
while her red licorice smile
keeps smiling.

My sister is a dancer, a choreographer, a mother.
She saws herself in half every day,
            She leaps into the air,
            her bare legs, muscled,
            her feet arched to perfect points.
            She spins, she bends.
            With one leg rooted to the stage,
            she extends the other, a branch stretching skyward.
            All the while her arms carry groceries,
            fold clothes, wipe counters, clean the tub,
            cradle the baby.

The magician who performs at her son’s party
saws her in half, draped
in purple on her kitchen table.
The boys cheer and clap.
But it hurts,
half of her lying there loving those children,
the other half dying slowly,
her legs wanting so to keep dancing.
The boys think it’s all magic,
girls know better though:
            the trick is to keep smiling.