At the Cinema (or the Problem with Twisters)

(Wanted to say a quick thanks for you guys that keep reading my stuff & commenting. Will respond individually ASAP...

This is a piece involving a film and lit. class and what I guess is a rather odd reaction to something iconic to American culture, something that rather haunted me--among many things--as a child. Hope you like it.)

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Note the power of the horizontal closeup.
The impossibly angelic figure.
The floral print pillow
and the checkered gingham dress.

Watch her swoon. The camera
tracking druggedly back and forth.

Always the light manipulated
into baptismal suggestion.
All the angles dissolving,
reframing themselves.

Too much color now,
it dismantles me.
The road so yellow
it makes your teeth ache.

The point at which every detail
becomes a terrible consequence.

Watch as she coagulates
her many selves
into some semblance of a woman.

That time you bent me
over the doll case,
wisteria bending mournfully
toward the window.

The point in the path
where it's too late to turn back.

I learn the aspect ratio
of your body.
The dark mise en scene
of your mouth.

The heightened sense
of action.
The blissful unreality.

The house inside her head,
spinning. Even the red velvet
curtains make me hot.