If cinema is time plus light,
I’ve got a sequel to Marclay’s “The Clock.”
It begins with my grandad’s “fiat lux,”
delivered in a fond mock-heroic tone,
followed by a montage of the cheap and dear
switches I’ve handled in a long life cycle.
The pull chains, the panels of sticky plastic,
the button on a hotel’s fancy brass bouillotte.
The snapped lights-out in my childhood bedroom
where roses on satin turned ghost-pale by streetlamp.
Lights beyond my reach
(oh, how I would reverse this)
in the theatre where a stranger grabbed my thigh
when the lights dimmed before “Trop Belle Pour Toi.”
(I leapt up and left. How does it end?)
The night lights for nursing, the bedtime story light.
And this: the bakery boss at my first job
who led me down the cellar stairs
to the cold dark storeroom, then leaned close,
growling, “This way, you won’t forget!”
placed his hand over mine,
and set our hands on the switch.
