home movies

we faced the projection screen and opened our eyes
and the white surface lit up with an image of a girl
laying in the street with tread marks over her face.
we could sometimes choose what we wanted to show,
false memory that we lied with without ever having
to open our mouths, but mostly we showed the truth
for the sake of our mothers. gaping holes in the book-
shelves, a disembodied finger pointing at the front
door, all that hazel-colored rage and stomping heart-
beat egging on for pummeling. the odds were not
favorable. some things had been perfected, the art
of not leaving a mark, manipulation under angry
light. this was the last thing we would show before
our eyes would be sewn shut and the theater closed
for good: the words i never asked for this flashing
across a grainy stretch of pavement and the sound
of a car skidding away in broad daylight.


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