An hour into Scarface
(for the fifteenth time)
the power cuts
and the sloping Bolivian hills
snap into darkness.
The silence thrills us;
it hits like a car crash.
We slowly clank into action.
You use your phone light to find the fuse box –
Who owns a torch these days?
I light a candle:
the one in the burnt yellow glass
and look out the window
at the street in pitch.
I imagine our neighbours in the dark
arms outstretched, like swimmers,
reaching for lighters and batteries –
whatever glimmers.
I wonder about kids crying,
dinners spoiled,
and hands
feeling in the dark.
After a while, still nothing:
no spark. We step outside.
The night is balmy –
the bricks hold the heat of the day
and it floods back into the house.
I fetch beers from the warm fridge.
The bulb is out so I feel for the tins:
I know where they are
and grab a few.
Outside you’re looking up
and I at you.
ataraxicat 