A daughter holds your shirt pocket
and you tuck her in the seams

to keep her small
night worries at bay. Sing

a child to sleep like they do in Hollywood
or heaven. YOUR NAME in lights, ether,

neon you. Only you can’t carry
worries or tunes. On earth, supposedly,

they roll credits
where credit is due. Is this

what you wanted? To hold a star
in both hands at once? To leave

one hallway for another?
Place the daughter

into your shirt pocket, a mint from post-
production. An unopened life

saver, saved
shrink-wrapped, fathered. You splice

another frame in which a boy
is given two pistols

for the picture. New
Jersey cowboy. There is dust

on the memory, the negative
developed with fingerprints. Exposed, it dances

out of step. The boy falls, protecting
his fists, your fists, empty,

full of projection,
worried stars.

 

 

Amanda Maret Scharf