Underneath the
projected images thin creases
line the worn screen like silhouettes of bare trees
when a flashlight darts back and forth behind them
on a cold night.
Slivers of lightning like thorny jewelry on the heavy
clouds. The heroine’s face floats uncomfortably
close; invisible bows jerk frantically across
a hidden orchestra’s string section. In response
my body tightens. I can’t believe its rebellion, this
is all so dully familiar. The exit sign’s letters
glow electric blue. Gasps stretch out
from open mouths all around me, but I’ve missed
the boat. The curved wooden chair backs
look like cardboard waves, the kind used
in high school stage productions to simulate
the ocean—even numbers of hands off stage
making it sway back and forth. They watch
the actors flub lines, make eyes
at attractive opposite wave holders.
In the reflected screen light, some people appear
to tread water, to hoist their heads
above the silvery waterline. Others float by
on their backs, serene and peaceful.
Since I’m not watching the movie, the roof
above me opens. The sky turns up to twilight.
I see a child actor, playing myself, climb
the wooden high school bleachers, alone—imagine
a crowd, worked up into a fever, all around him.
On the gravel track the actor playing my father puffs
the morning air. The child actor finds
the announcer’s box unlocked, play-by-plays an invisible
football game. Suddenly down
on the white-lined grass, he tries to kick a football
above the bright yellow goal. The sun rises.
Nausea from hunger, from making the body sweat so early.
He told me he was an overweight kid, laughed at until
he started running. I never saw him that way
in any pictures.
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