Cinema

The winter I leave him, I ask my parents to consider me

their oldest son. To bend the rules.

I could be a little tree, late to flourish,

focused on my underground career.

I tell them to buy me a house.

They’re 15 years divorced. We’re sitting around

my mother’s kitchen table. My father and I smoke.

My father: Remember, this is the second time.

As though I could forget: I have no use

for houses since I’ve refused

to raise children. I want walls

they can’t touch, tender drywalls of protection.

Still, I was there, pulling weeds to no avail.

When I toil again, I want it to be for me.

When I commit to the cinema

of sorrow, I like to follow

through, stay in my seat

until the end, stand and clap.

I want to know what happens after:

Hard laughter

            pouring out of the apartment above

mine, all night.