Theme XII: Belief, “Prisoner’s Cinema”

By Nicholas Ng

I don’t think
I’m hungry.
I wander,
filled up with
candle glow
and the sound
of turquoise.
A red tux
told me I
was dead, and
when I think
about his
palm tree tie,
his jabber
rattles at
my back. All
six walls are
white, always
too far to
touch, and I
look without
finding my
body. I
sit by the
window of
Ms. Albert’s
class, scraping
yellow off
my pencils,
waiting for
to dust. My
father will
come at three.
I don’t know
where he lives
or what he
wants, but once
I saw in
Nashville the
man jogging
seven to
twenty, and
I follow
as stale air
floods in from
docked planes. I
trace the green
line upon
the carpet.
I wake on
his shoulder.
He’s asleep.
His glasses
are on the
floor. Out the
window, flecks
of New York
catch in black
clouds. It’s nine-
o-four our
time somewhere.


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