I go to the movie house
with my mother
who whispers loudly
through the trailers.
She gossips about
actors, their sex lives.
Embarrassed, I look
around to see no one else.
In shades of silver,
bruised, cowering
children bleed black,
forced to work in silent
movies, spending
decades developing
an elaborate language
of symbols in time
for the advent of talkies.
The rattle of the projector
is maddening. A handful
of melted Milk Duds
turns my stomach sour.
Mother smacks
stale popcorn
soaked with imitation butter.
She gurgles the bottom
of her soda cup
with a chewed-flat straw,
picks at the kernel
shells between her teeth,
leans close and whispers see,
your childhood wasn’t so bad.
Copyright ©2002 J. P. Dancing Bear
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