We’d go to the cinema in the afternoon
Then for coffee later.
She’d studied film for four years
And when discussing it afterward
Sounded like a police mortician
Diagnosing the cause of death,
The more lavish and Hollywood the affair
The more bloated the corpse,
“Exposition, complication, climax”
She’d say and draw a curved line on a napkin
Depicting the three stages of composition.
One day she said,
“Only life can teach us how things explode”
And it was true I thought-
Most men drop dead
In the middle of their story or
Have nothing resembling a story at all.
When she finally left
I kept up those visits to the cinema
Sat in the cool dark on long afternoons
till my senses warped
The most simple story perplexed me
I found myself laughing at death scenes
And weeping at the jokes.
Even years later the random sight
Of planes and falling buildings
made little sense,
No matter how well explained and
Beautiful the narrative.