Moving
Pictures
Jack Garcia
“You’re not
doing it right,” he said,
packing the
powdered herbs more tightly,
lighting the
fire that will start
the moving
picture show.
“You need to
inhale deeper.
With your
stomach, not just your chest.”
I try again,
coughing, laughing a little.
The smoke scratches
at my throat
with its
vaporish claws.
Dust-smeared
images flicker
on the torn
screen. Faded
Technicolor
slows down
and slows
down
until it
stops with a rip
in the film
and a cigarette burn.
All life is
on pause.
Then,
slowly, the colored lights return
and in
slow-motion I unwrap him,
his clothes
like rolling papers,
and we laugh
at how funny our movie is.
I inhale all
of him, not just with my chest,
but with my
whole being
and he
tickles my throat.
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