I never questioned it—how real the blade of grass,  
sliced through by the monstrous lawnmower.  
How real the crumb carried in the pincers of the ant,  
how real the bright white cream, sandwiched between 
the gigantic cookies, the cream the two teenagers  
devoured together, faces grimy and shining  
in the light of the backyard moon. The innocence.  
The daughter—Amy? Stacy?—fingering  
the phone cord, making plans to meet  
her boyfriend at the mall. I won’t go back  
and watch it. I don’t want to see the mechanics, 
the plastic, special effects. Back then it was  
magic, heroics. We would never have known  
we now have phones that choose our own  
adventures, that whole hours can pass without us 
looking up from them. Whole worlds shrunk  
to fit inside our back pockets, worlds that vibrate  
our bodies with blasts of pink hearts, peaches,  
drops of water, tiny fires. Would never have known  
that one day you could get a text from a man  
that says I want you in my bloodstream,  
and the very next day he is gone. 

Julia C. Alter received her MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and appeared in journals including the Southern Humanities Review, Raleigh Review, Crab Creek Review, CALYX, Foundry, Sixth Finch, and is forthcoming in Stained: An Anthology of Writing About Menstruation. She lives in Vermont with her son. www.alterpoetry.com.