Andrew Terhune
Harvey Keitel

Harvey Keitel plays Judas
on the front lawn.

Tells me he’s not:
It’s all just pretend, Andrew.

I’ve still got my old Mean Streets accent,
he says.

Listen: ‘You two-faced, dirty fucking bastard!’

Isn’t that DeNiro’s line?
I ask.

Through the window, he points.
Tells me not to get cute,

says he can still get a little batshit,
even in the suburbs.

Picks up the machine gun
and blasts the mailbox to hell.

Goddamn,
that gun gets hot!


Knocks on the front door and asks
to come in, but I decline.

Harvey Keitel calls me a fuckball
and tells me to open up.

Drops to his knees:
Forgive me, forgive me,
forgive me, please!


Okay, I say —
but no kisses.





Natalie Wood

Natalie Wood puts her head down
on the pillow and closes her eyes.

She closes her eyes and tries
to sleep, but she cannot sleep.

Imagines herself on a blanket
in the grass with Warren Beatty.

Natalie Wood puts her headphones on
to bury the sounds.

She imagines herself on a boat
out on the ocean, swaying.

Softly to herself:
I’m gonna pretend until I see it.

Natalie Wood tries to see her future.
Sees visions of little boys drawing pictures.

The same pictures over and over —
pictures of lions and their cages.

She paints a picture, of Warren
and the ocean, but no swaying.

Natalie Wood pulls the sheet
over her face like a dark black veil.

When she tightens her eyes,
she hears the lions roar.

When she does sleep,
she does not dream of their cages.





River Phoenix

In 1999,
I bought a VHS copy of My Own Private Idaho
at my local Blockbuster:

River Phoenix is like my favorite.
I told her big news of 1993.
And she cried.

Oh my Morgan Freeman!
What happened to River Phoenix?


She cried a little too long.
I felt it later, like this.

I felt like an asshole.

Oh no!
I think I might never stop crying!


It could have been like a bad dream—
a dream that never follows.

But it wasn’t.
I never felt fine.

If you look at it too long,
you might get it.
Andrew Terhune is originally from Memphis, Tenn. He is the author of the chapbook Helen Mirren Picks Out My Clothes (greying ghost press, 2010) and his poems have recently appeared in Bateau, West Wind Review, Meridian, Sixth Finch, and Court Green.