As I walk into the dim room,
a movie is playing
and my mom is watching intently.
I am there but I am not there,
an ephemeral planet in the making.
A spectral vision.
A light and dark murky chiaroscuro.
An opened envelope.
Where is this place, this mansion, this spaceship?
Who are these people really in
this other reality?
I can see for instance:
my mother’s searing invectives,
my father’s unraveling tongue,
all the action folding in on itself.
But I am the breeze that falls from a nearby tower,
with no place to hide.
Then I walk into another room
and my sister,
a desert away,
is watching the moving images intently,
I see her obscure picture on the screen,
holding forth in animation,
Every director imbuing their action with a silver tongue.
Still I lurk invisible.
Their story, their scene.
Space is an accordion,
and I can’t dance
in the undertow.
Until I walk into another room,
And see my own movie playing,
and finally, it all makes sense.
I awake to the warmth and singing cells of slickness,
And my skin tingles with meaning.
Everything that ever happened to me,
Is suspended in mid-air.
At last time keeps its promise to itself,
as my shadow slips under the threshold,
and all the little citizens of me burn.
Here I am free,
for a while.
Until I get another hat,
until I find my way out of the current.
Until I realize,
I can go for popcorn at any time.
and never come back.
By Rhonda Morrison 2022
Published by Backbone Press