The movie rolls smoothly to a sudden jerk,
credits scroll in order of who shot first,
and we’re all fast asleep, basking
(in tv black-glow and orange and blue
indications that our time has expired)
in positions our mothers would be proud of.
All except for one: stoic bright-eyed or rather
half-glazed or maybe just sprinkles on top,
definitely no bushy tail in this half-dozen
deceased that moan out (for the sole benefit of my ears)
whatever tormented pleasure mimics reality.
Dejectedly amused I crawl the stairs
to my love’s room, as she sleeps in waiting,
not watching me apply a shirt not mine
to my tv-tanned skin under digital clock light,
making extra sure the buttons are on the right-
a feature of shirts previously not typical to this closet,
but that’s why we say “i love you”
with all her lefties as ancient history, yet secretly
I’m hoping for a comeback before I retire.
She stirs as I stir
(a rustle to my disquiet?
aware of subtle wakefulness?)
as the patrol of the night light
does little to ease her mind of monsters
and I question her age-
she tells me her name.
I pluck all the buttons off this shirt
and replace them with screams.
(from under the bed)
