Law of the Edge by Diana Senechal

                                    —To the film Árni

I understand the whirl now, the long
con of centripetal pull: I stretch as far
from the light as granted, orbiting the
host of specks that fill your shape
but ignoring the terms: only if the center
holds can I keep my radius, my tether
to heaven. Every system has its wrecker,
its vandal marauding the night to slash
the wire. The picture swoops into
blackout crisis; unwilling to flee, I
wrap myself in the reel, testing my
will before a throng of ravished,
pitiless eyes. The movie must go on,
I must become it. Heck, says Fate,
you have been longing for this apex,
you must be thrilled. I suppose so.
I thought I was happy with my half-
time, perk-filled usher job, a screen
to stay my mind on, row S, seat 4
mine for the taking, to stir and rest
within, to cry a raw, astonished
“beautiful” from. Yet in a snap
I turn myself into your brutal grace.
I lift my chin, hold out my arms,
lilt forth the picture, no rush as you
writhe and tighten around me, no time.
So new the last frame, the plunge into
the blank debris beyond the final cut.

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