collected poems

i. now a major motion picture

in
the movie version of events i live
somewhere colder, somewhere
where spring bookends a short a winter.
i play the writer
who is trying to balance it all: dysfunctional
family, creative conspitation,
a stack of china plates.

if this were a movie there
would be no scars on my thighs, no blisters or bruises,
and every problem with be cinematic, worth it,
accompanied by song and montage.
i would be taller,
my glasses a costuming afterthought.

but this is real life and i am window-shopping for the right dress
to wear while discouraged; 
today is the first day of cinematic sunshine
and the new piercing still hurts and probably will
for a while.
i am remembering the voice of a cameo role, some guy with a needle,
uncredited and unintentional, telling me 
don't forget, it's still a wound--
it just happens to be a pretty one.