My father-in-law forgets, again, that his wallet
is in the cruise-ship bedroom safe, flustered
as he searches pants pockets for his identity.
Finally, my mother-in-law just gives it to him,
secrets another glass of Chablis, then another,
as though drinking were a hidden fountain—
memory un-wrinkling into the young girl
she somewhere still is, though the body
silently cripples her cell by defiant cell.
The grandchildren remain blissful,
cavort across cruise ship decks
bound in their cavernous hearts
for what must seem an eternal voyage—
limitless food, incessant festivities,
the night shows—as now, all of us
expectant in the front row, the magician
pulling my wife from her seat onto the stage,
bra mysteriously pulled from blouse,
embarrassed laughter; then her brother,
dollar bill ripped in pieces, materializing again,
whole, inside an orange; their father beaming,
his family whole, here, together, magic
his childhood hobby, hands clapping
as he watches the juggler in the darkened room,
fluorescent rings rotating three to each arm and leg
while hanging suspended from the ceiling,
teeth clenched on a leather strap,
an apple-shaped orb stuck in his mouth
like some original sin, holding on
for dear life, for all of us—the apple,
the teeth, the death-defying act:
that we live at all, this original
inexplicable trick.