At the movies
BY DANIEL RUIZ
Run. The earthquake
trapped in my skull
has cracked bone, & I’ve been stuck
inside Wall #4, watching
roaches big as babies
sticking their legs
in the sink, still cars
as I speed by on the highway.
I’ve found my bones
in the lake in my old neighborhood,
my ribs like hands
reaching to test the surface,
leaves like empty gondolas,
drowning when full.
All of the seats are taken.
Even the ghosts have to look
over each other’s shoulder
to see the atom bomb
that’ll never blow
because everyone secretly
loves the taste of wind—
& at least gasoline
tastes like it smells, is not
deceptive like the mirrors
too slow to catch a man so ancient
he doesn’t need to drink water.
I reach my hand in the lake
& pull out my hand,
all bone but alive,
shaking the one attached to me
like it were the fat end
of a man stretched by steaks
& cocktails. I pull the hand
& the rest of me rises
from the water, perfectly put-
together like the found fossils
of a dinosaur whose teeth sell tickets
to toddlers. But I’m alone
with me, & both of us want to switch
skins like color-coated plastic surgeons.
But then he falls apart,
shattering like a light bulb against
the concrete, leaving only his hand,
floating over him, gripping mine
like the hand of a child
that needs to be disciplined in public.
