Horror Flick (a hard kiss)
The projector pants like a horse,
and we are its pantomime, fidget
in our seats, sink further into the
hollowed-out heart of siege,
the aperture of the projector a mouth
moving in the bourbon darkness.
The film lurches. The film sticks. The film lifts.
We are in over our heads.
Climax pushes against the pulse in our wrists
and temples, a hard kiss—the girl undead
inside of the dead—menace of birds, rehearsal.
We exit into a vise of sunlight.
Our cars glint closer and closer, pan into us.
—dawn lonsinger, Salt Lake City, UT