Film Studies

These black lovers on-screen
save themselves from concrete.

Credits roll. Once, my mother
throws a burnt log at my father,

and it must be like this: holding
on to love’s inevitable reel. Once,

the projection streams a finger
corked into a heart: knife-wound.

I tell the doctor, let go— unmind
the dark jet when my finger re-

turns to me. Narrative saves us.

If mirrors disappoint, consider
white eyes. Then flood cinemas

with light to drain the mind.
So look at trees neutrally,

says landscapes. A history book
infects them with bodies. I try

a different bingo. I don’t go on
walks depending on the news.

There’s always news. The lens
should not have considered us,

but there’s a block party in the sky.
My ancestors sway. I take pictures

to envy white people. To envy my-
self, says mirrors. Shut this door,

walk away from lectures on stars.
Schadenfreude the physicists as

this universe fails us one last time.
The sun’s bad season looms calm.

Perhaps we send someone to look,
die bravely to prevent supernova.

My body floats. Earth forgets me.

The producers greenlight a sequel,
watch you finger the burnt popcorn

at the bottom.