One Missed Call

In the narrow chair
arms on the thin, wooden rests
bag a light touch on my shins
I wonder where on earth
you've got to.

The film begins
and the title appears
in Japanese
with an English translation.
The theme-music is sparse
in a minor key
so low and loud
the seats vibrate.

The opening scene is
a group of young friends
eating at a restaurant.
One girl has a phobia
about peepholes.
Another is bored
with her boyfriend.

This is supposed to be
a documentary about
an Arab television network.
People are still arriving
into darkening spaces

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the usher's torch a tiny
projection of its own.
I have not bought any
popcorn or icecream
so I am even more alone.

My mother and I
always loved a good horror

especially the ones
about haunted things—
cars, houses
cupboards under stairs.
She and my sister
smuggled me
into a drive-in

in Australia
under blankets on the back seat.
Carrie started fires

and threw people against walls
just by being angry.
I watched her
lifted clear off the ground
by the force of her own rage

she began to spin
faster and faster
her hair came free
of its bun.