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.