Where is my ring and where is the finger to which it belongs? Film reel unspools down the hill toward steel mill soon to be casino. I find the too-big onyx gem and now we’re driving through gloss fields of ironweeds in Pennsylvania, then sunset in France. I tap on the gray dashboard, static and ornament and now I’ve lost it again. What’s between us is this glinting strip of vomit.


Seen the angels. When other forces move from black and white to technicolor away blows our paper money. You wrap me in your Wings of Desire trench coat.


We enter the defunct mill’s glare, silver. A broken refrigerator light, punctured cloud, paint-blocked drain, lambskin, blue lightbulb. Seated on the curb eating neon cake under minimart lights, a portion of the sky liquifies. Your hand moves hallucinatory between gleams and makes a third glint, silver screen.

Emmalea Russo is the author of G (Futurepoem, 2018) and Wave Archive (Book*hug, 2019). Her essays, art writing, and poems have appeared in Artforum, American Chordata, BOMB, The Brooklyn Rail, Granta, Hyperallergic, Los Angeles Review of Books, and elsewhere. A new chapbook, Great Mineral Silence (2020) is out from Sputnik & Fizzle. She lives at the Jersey shore and edits Asphalte Magazine.

Silver Screens
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