Cinema
The winter I leave him, I ask my parents to consider me
their oldest son. To bend the rules.
I could be a little tree, late to flourish,
focused on my underground career.
I tell them to buy me a house.
They’re 15 years divorced. We’re sitting around
my mother’s kitchen table. My father and I smoke.
My father: Remember, this is the second time.
As though I could forget: I have no use
for houses since I’ve refused
to raise children. I want walls
they can’t touch, tender drywalls of protection.
Still, I was there, pulling weeds to no avail.
When I toil again, I want it to be for me.
When I commit to the cinema
of sorrow, I like to follow
through, stay in my seat
until the end, stand and clap.
I want to know what happens after:
Hard laughter
pouring out of the apartment above
mine, all night.
