I spend some sick pay for a dream lit with darkness,
for the feel of my damp soles on thick carpet,
for the perfectly centered seats, the one I slink into and the one
ahead of me that silhouettes my elevated feet as two old lovers,

and for the previews that pass like small plates of crudités,
rousing my thumb to poke through
the cardboard cylinder lid as the first Flick tumbles
out onto my palm, crowning my craving to suck and chew,

mostly suck the chocolates so they will last through
the subtitled melancholic love triangle, through intermission
and through the downfall of the poor old fool in love with
the beautiful young nun who is just my age.

I pity them all, grateful for their sorrow, for their absurd mistakes
made more wonderful by the rain outside. Heavy velvet curtains
eclipse The End while lobby doors let in the cold.
The accordion soundtrack accompanies me outside, where

white sky static drains my eyes of their blackness.
Cherry blossom petals drizzle onto the dome of my violet umbrella
as the camera pans out and up up over the street.
February is blossoming into March.

Here anything is possible.

by Madeline Lacques-Aranda