Fernando Pérez: Head Games Below Surface

We could talk about teeth
in a dimly lit room.

The bending of a saw blade.
Grungy-haired guys play them

like violins
—the eerie of its bend

off our skin, the walls.

When I talk of stolen waves
she is beguiling with her lips.

She’s thinking of punk playlists,
a surfer in a wetsuit—

And before we go too far
she tells me to put one on.
I hate that shit.

I should know better. Think
about saw teeth and skin.

Instead, I think waves.

Whenever sharks
creep in my head

between sets,
my hands pushing through

the water’s edge,
I do everything

to divert attention—
The peaks above surface:

Even when the what if’s
grin in the murk below.



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