‘The State Theatre’ by James O’Sullivan

I loved those bulbs,
in their rows,
drawing you closer,
like a runway
to somewhere else,
beyond Five Guys and Starbucks.
On Mondays we would gather,
six or seven, always strangers,
sitting in familiar seats,
plastic cups of wine in hand,
the occasional rustle
of popcorn,
and the ripping of treat size bags.
It was like the mausoleums
from back home –
the Kino, the Christchurch –
though with comfortable seats,
and white lights
that gave the walls an angelic hue.
I was always there alone,
but it was the least lonely
place in that entire town –
I felt almost close to home
as they took me down
Sunset Boulevard,
and choked the life from Fredo –
betrayal, life there reeked with it,
that, and sweet batter,
floating in oil,
browning in those bubbles.

From issue #6: spring/summer 2018

About the Author
James O’Sullivan’s work has appeared in The Stinging Fly, The SHOp, Southword, Cyphers, Crannóg and Revival. His most recent collection of poetry is Courting Katie (Salmon 2017). He is a lecturer at UCC. For more information visit josullivan.org.