theater, I feel you heavy as the night, fog
folding its hands into thick blankets placed over
the empty street—the cinema spills across
the concrete. Popcorn, candy, some hand-me-
down script traced and retraced
with trembling fingers. Sex scene, soliloquy,
a sweet memory to take to bed. This is
what we carry with us: the wind singing
the same song of horror, of action, of every
myth we’ve made ourselves. I find my arms
unable to reach, each body building
off mine like a collection of sectioned
stories reworded. But oh film,
oh feature, this body is
a creature and I suppose I’m saying—
this is where we begin to end.
Adam D. Weeks is a senior undergraduate student studying creative writing at Salisbury University. He has poetry published or forthcoming in Poet Lore, Slipstream Press, The Shore, Prairie Margins, The Allegheny Review and Broadkill Review.