to see A Quiet Place
in theaters. We hold hands
through the previews, it is Halloween,
and we are somehow the only ones
not in costume. My blazer is
faux leather, its right
edge glancing off her
thigh below the end of her
black pleated tulle mini skirt.
We split a large popcorn
which she holds on her lap
so when I want a bite
I have to twist, swing
my body toward her, my chest
covered by blue turtleneck
under that faux leather blazer
and with popcorn
in my mouth, I wonder why
I dressed like a banker or
Amal Clooney, if she likes that.
After all, she is still
holding my hand, fingers
tucked between her
many rings, cutting off
the oxygen to my palm.
(I am telling you all this
so you know that it was real,
which it absolutely was not)
As I lose circulation, I do not
make a noise because
this is a dream inside of a poem
and because I do not want to
be responsible for killing Emily Blunt or her
and her real husband’s movie
children and because
this is all I could have ever
wanted: a fatal flirtationship
with Phoebe, the both of us
made speechless by our beauty
or movie theater etiquette
or keeping Emily Blunt alive.
And then, on the sticky floor
of San Francisco’s Metreon 16
I die in IMAX both by and for
Phoebe’s hand, finally becoming
the sad and spooky skeleton
she loved all along.
The next night, I tell my boyfriend
about this dream, and he squeezes
my arm, says for my suffering I can set
the Spotify playlist while we cook
so I do, and Reader, it is poetry—
me in my Target-brand skeleton
t-shirt, making pasta and
turning on Phoebe Bridgers.