Some serve in a churchlike Athens Odeon, an act of observance
and Greek dubbing, others in Sao Paulo's Una Banco pimping
ice cream while waiters tout margaritas, and a Tangier picture
palace where the audience shouts look behind you! to the hero
comfort refugees in a shell-pocked art house in Beirut, watch
contraband movies in an Art Deco theater amongst Havana
palms, fight off the manager of a Roxy in Taiwan.
They've heard the roar of light hit the screen, ping of a bra
strap from the back row, watched a lit match passed like
an Olympic flame across red velvet seats, cigarette smoke
floating into bas-reliefs and chevrons; torch beams gliding
over carpets they are ciphers guiding us into the lit city,
the mansion, bedrooms, bars.
There's one now, next to my aisle seat, raised knee flicking
off a shoe, leaning back on the curtained wall, unlit torch
idly hanging, the world at 24 frames a second in her eyes.