We go to the Cineplex like some go get mega-churched,
but your truth French-cactuses my tongue
during previews, known in marketing as premonitions.
Air-conditioned caramel sticks in my fillings, scolds me
of the form-fitting mouth-guard at home for not clenching
molars, incisors, the shut-up, don’t-say-it,
that Plasticine “everything’s alright here.” I could lose
a tooth, pathway to the grave, and you’re a sad-
sack of wet popcorn as the film hovers
through the darkness like the USS Enterprise.
My brain …