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 flickers—which words to use—I can’t read
subtitles and feel at the same time.
You bandage your …