The Movies

Hers is redemption.
Her ex’s, persistence against the odds.
My ex’s, cloaked in shame.
During Broadcast News she refused
To see William Hurt’s designed stupidity.
The flashback in the delivery truck,
Father consoling scholastic ineptitude
Did not register above the din
Of Hurt’s humorless, perfectly constructed face.
She lost me that night. I sat in funk
Knowing I did not trust her to let Truth
Strip bare desire and ask forgiveness
For insisting on sightlessness,
And I no longer wanted her too.
I resigned myself to an endless
Scraping away of organ flesh
Until the ventricles flapped paper-thin
Before collapsing beneath the pressure
Of ribs and diaphragm.
I was determined to last-- noble, saintly.
I found reprieve in the ex’s fury.
Stubborn still, but I ceded
To the threat of legal removal

And mine is unknown to me.
With no pattern in Apocalypse, Metal Jacket,
A Night at the Opera, Shawshank,
Young Frankenstein, and Cuckoo’s Nest.
I see myself without human optical accuracy.
I am not there. I am eyes alone. A single eye.
I watch and like what I like. Autofocused.
I only recognize myself in reflection.
A quote from Avedon revealing his portraits
Are about him more than the subject.
Exposes my mechanical whirring, and endless footage.
Narcissisus saw himself in the pool, and did something
Too unlikely for sense. He fell in love. How?
Were I to see my reflection with such clarity,
I would squint in pain. I do not remember a time
Without self-loathing. The ex’s hatred of me
Aimed itself at my lens’ blindness.
My love now laughs at it, warm, inclusive,
And makes no apology for my sadness.