A Child Again, by Margo Davis

A Child Again                                                              
                       viewing the Dutch film The Vanishing

I lean forward to meet the flame at centre frame engulfed 
in darkness. My eyes adjust. 

A red silken backdrop falls forward. The heroine’s elbows fan out 
against the casket that hems her in. 

My feet press the floor. Her trembling makes the spark waver 
then go out. 

Will she catch a whiff of chloroform beneath her quivering upper lip?
Again she flicks 

her lighter, its flame held close enough to scorch the fabric 
of fear. Her low groan 

makes me shudder. The camera cuts to the fresh-turned ground 
she lies beneath. 

From moving upright to buried alive. I can’t breathe! My own elbows 
measure left, right. 

I’m twelve again, reading burial tales under thick covers
by flickering flashlight. 

Her tremble risks setting silk on fire. Be still. Don’t waste oxygen. 
Wait. 

Margo Davis

Margo’s poems have appeared in Light: A Journal of Photography & Poetry, Wisconsin Review, Midwest Quarterly, Slipstream, Agave Magazine, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. Forthcoming poems are to appear in Misfit Magazine, Civilized Beasts, Vine Leaves Literary, Burgers and Barrooms Anthology, and Echoes Off a Canyon Wall, an ekphrastic photo / poetry exhibit.