by Kayla Pongrac Schwerer
Your corneas look like springtime
but I am lock-and-keyed to winter and
the swirling
snow. I looked
at that picture you took yesterday
and, hey, I think we’re
growing old—Polaroids hanging by
push-pins, fading and curling as
we celebrate our new sepia tone.
But I’m still tap
dancing on the curved platform
inside your right ear, like a fool with
a flask inside a pocket
unsown. Nickname me the way
baby brother Nick named me
because I feel embarrassed
to have lost my balance
when
you got down on
one knee
to tie my shoe.