The film director, editing, cutting, redacting,
renouncing. What’s left on the floor we never
see. What’s spliced in looks almost seamless.

Yet sometimes we discover disturbing gaps:
a fear of orange, nausea at the smell of leather.
Clips of history on the cutting floor.

Maybe an uncle in flashy shirt. Maybe driving a brand
new Cadillac, stopping on a secluded road by an old mine shaft.
Turning to touch a child.

Or the story’s smooth but makes no sense.
How could a mother have played princess dolls, baked cookies,
when she stayed in bed all day, pills by her side.

The screenwriter searches for language to wrap
the marrow. Always aiming, mostly missing, like my son
speaking French or my sister explaining black holes.

The story gallops ahead, skipping age six, age seventeen.
Or limps behind, hesitant, not wanting to catch up to
the husband, the black eyes, the stitches, the shelter.

I watch the film and listen to the lines, to the words.
Always aiming, mostly missing. I can see words won’t work.
Let the silence between the words tell the story.