poetry: subtitled by Marie Lecrivain

When I am with you,
I feel like we are in a subtitled movie
driving down a remote European highway
in a Ferrari,
or maybe
in something small, deadly and German.

The shape of your mouth is not
rounding in synch
with the sounds of your emotions.
"A" is "W,"
or sometimes "Y."
"U" comes out as
two "K's" and a silent "B."
My smile
foreshadows an
an international
assassination plot,
and our kiss is the signal
for hordes of Mongols to
leave the hills
shop haute couture in Paris.

The confusion
is charming,
but still confusing.

What are we saying?

What I am saying?

I know
when I take the gun
from the hands of the dead fashionista,
and shoot you in the left eye,

when I spit on your favorite.
picture of your last stepmother.

when I count backward from ten,
in decimal points.

Do you know what I am saying?

The words are at the bottom of the screen in
dirty, yellow print,
but no one is paying attention.
The audience is too busy trying not to
grab each other's hands in the popcorn bucket,
fearful of falling in love.

Marie Lecrivain - Subtitled