Peter Twal
Where Are Your Friends Tonight
And even the birds can’t find it in their bones to sing for food today Is it easier
from inside a cage The neighbor kids selling lemonade to the leaves, sidewalk
chalky hands, how have they not collapsed yet Carving each other’s outlines
in the asphalt I ask for a portrait and suddenly, I’m being framed
for the thumbtacks Death left in your chair right before God shot me
a text to say I mean it to be ironic when all their oversized hearts explode
against the insides of their chests Staring at all my friends, I think of a bird in a cage
fluttering about, fatter and fatter and pop Here I was inking
my eyelids open in front of the mirror my heart wet in my head my skin embossed
with existential crisis like On the down beat in that hospital bed, your mechanical breathing
reminds me of a little world’s surface cratering out of existence and you know, does the universe even care
about me God answers: don’t forget the twelve bucks you owe me this year and I’m trying
to put into words the euphoria of entering a space from an exit only door, asking myself what I’ve ever loved
too much and then Death another dick pic, its phantom limb before it’s too late
Peter Twal earned his MFA from the University of Notre Dame, where he was awarded the Samuel and Mary Anne Hazo Poetry Award. His poetry has appeared or will soon in Kenyon Review Online, Ninth Letter Online, cream city review, The Journal, Devil’s Lake, RHINO, Booth, Yemassee, New Delta Review, Forklift, Ohio, DIAGRAM, Bat City Review, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere. A first generation Jordanian-American, Peter holds down a day job as an electrical engineer in Lafayette, Indiana, and you can find more of his work at petertwal.com.