Asleep in the Movie Theater
For Papa
After Muriel Rukeyser
1/
When I was small, I watched myself
in the deli mirror
sucking the guts out of a dill pickle
I thought
every mirror holds
magic/my face.
2/
Now I am thinking of lights
dimming over salty popcorn
and slurping a fruit punch mix
dipping into Nana’s sandwich bag
of cinnamon jawbreakers.
Exit lights glowing while Papa
enjoys his curated nap.
3/
I will be honest—
—I think love has always been mine
to take for granted
like a cup of tea you can let grow cold
when you know there’s a microwave.
4/
I am not usually very happy in February.
It’s too short to find footing.
The ground is winter saturated.
Then there’s leap day.
And sometimes I even forget
to remember on the eighteenth
what happened on the eighteenth.
5/
Let’s go back
to the doctor’s office
when I composed an ode
to my Papa’s butt chin.
We need to revise the lyrics
because no one will let me
update them after they’ve memorized
the song that ends every family occasion
there’s really no denying it
he’s got a butt chin and that’s it
my papa’s got a butt chin big and wide
and no one seems to care
except me
it rhyming with it
I think I’ve sung it for the last time
6/
so I end with a fake memory:
Every Sunday so we go
out for a drive in the red corvette
let the sun and wind rake
over our laughing teeth.
We stop for soft serve.
Allison Burris grew up in the Pacific Northwest and currently lives in Oakland, California. She received her MLIS from San Jose State University and her poetry appears or is forthcoming in After Happy Hour Review, Passionfruit, Opal Age Tribune, Avalon Literary Review, and elsewhere.
The Marbled Sigh 