after Eric Yip

In Baraka there is no narrative, no voice over. The world is carved open down to its core, down to the skulls & to the room holding the skulls. In Ali's Wedding he wants to trace his own path. I am sitting in a warm room with my friend & I am telling her about the ache. How my heart keeps banging loud, each fine thread of muscle unravelling slow. I don't say angina. Don't say my breath stalls, & medicals suggest I may have cardiac arteries hardening to rock. In Takva: a Man's Fear of God the man is alone. Unlike me he prays long & believes in his own pristine light. After class, I brunch at an eatery with my friend. We buy soup & outside she makes a joke about how I kept licking & licking till the plate scrubbed clean. I don't say my ache widens. Don't say I'm trying to offer my body whatever it may never have. In Where Do We Go Now Lebanese women push back war. There's a scene where they drug the men with hashish & pastries, & then lift the weapons from around their necks. When they awake it is nothing short of a miracle. Isn't that what I too desire— sitting on this edge of the bed, counting nifedipine & atenolol. When the pills knock me out, I hope I'll awake with a heart steady enough it will be a miracle worth watching on screen.