Poems
Lines Composed Behind Sterlini Theater
A theater in “the magic capital,” an inland lake dotted with old rustics, concrete rabbit grinning by the seawall as if to say there are two kinds of tricks: ones that make people re-or-disappear, and those where things eschew physical laws. I’ve spilled ewe’s blood before a purblind seer. I’ve never seen the dead the magus draws except in a handful of startling dreams where I have to remind them they are gone, and they shrug like, “Hey, nothing’s as it seems.” Magicians do their work long after dawn. There’s nothing when I look inside my hat. These makeshift spells won’t bring our dead friends back.
Cal Freeman is the author of several books and chapbooks, most recently The Weather of Our Names (Cornerstone Press 2025). His writing can be found in many publications, including Pithead Chapel, Berkeley Poetry Review, Willow Springs, Oxford American, and North American Review. He teaches at Oakland University.