The Art of Cinema
by Yejin Suh
Alpenglow is what they call the redirection of light towards
snowcaps like rosedust though some people ponder
the mischief of refractions across peaks, rising and
falling in a valley like the cadence of voices carving
a hazy Mediterranean summer, blushing
laze, heat-stricken and searing under my fingernails. A
language of tenative light we speak round the table,
smoke furling in crumbles, eyeing the script. I watch day and night
waiting for anyone to say their lines. The other day
I knocked over a feed-reel, dust-ridden and cigarette-pressed,
loose film unraveled in spiraling winds down the stairs, around
bunched corners, piling at my feet. I might know you from
sound. I could see you in a Spaghetti Western: hair flying, fingers
bumbling. Smiling that movie star smile.