One of the Ways that We Show Our Age

Peter Twal

And you vibrate the littlest bone in my ear    pretend drive
from the couch    flipping air radio knobs until out belt
your white teeth    violins grinding against
each other    You echo in my chest hole    say,    whatever happened
to that surgery channel will happen to us all
eventually—    Like I could ever look
at all my friends the same    when not a single one responded
to my mass text    maybe we’re all just birds
trapped in an airport    Why I can’t stop scratching
the back of my ear    and a cry for help every time I flip
the channel but    you tell me pretend    parallel parking
is harder than it seems and your hands circle
the air like a buzzsaw    You,    spitting slightly
when you speak and me    smiling    holy water    holy water

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