Disturbing magician's sex poem

Nothing Up My Sleeves

I hover above you like a plague
of birds ready to descend
and rend your tributary
flesh as ancient oracles
await to divine what fate
your blood describes
for Thebes.

Still, you, like a magician’s
assistant lie frozen helpless on
your back, smiling bleached
teeth upward at the ceiling
so the crowd suspects
nothing, your eyes calm
heartbeat at adagio
patiently prepared to be
dismembered.