by Max Pearson
waltz: pectus excavatum
through the peephole in the curtain, i see
outside, where the wind howls and snow crashes
titanium cymbals against my perspiring window. oblivious,
you twist over in my bedsheets. half-asleep,
my middle-school Justin Bieber blanket falls to reveal
the soft scoop in your chest. i cup my hand
and make suction-cup sounds on the dent
until you wake, brown eyes flickering
in perfect tune with my old lamp’s staccato flashes.
i keep time with kisses: one, your nose, two, your ear,
three, the freckle under your eye,
where your skin is still baby-soft, shy of sandpaper
beard. i rest my head over your heart
and listen to its bass-drum pulse, a metronome
for your hi-hat winter-cold sniffling.
love letter found on crumpled napkin, stained with orange juice
how long does grapefruit keep? / the solitary side of winter
there is nothing to be divined in the lines and squares
of a dirty truck’s slush tire tracks. learn this now.
coffee’s gone cold / didn’t raise a quitter
stick it out until the bitter end.
this fruit bites you!
these goddamn eggs. i never boil them right.
cold hands stumble / egg shell splinters
i wait for your corolla to pull into my driveway,
wait for the shy honk of your rusted horn.
hot / soft / sweet
i would make it perfect for you.