the bones | by Joey Gould

                              for July

Next to a ribcage she read
from the book of dead birds.
Maybe it was a whale jaw
& she read from a museum.
She’s a museum of tarot
a bookshelf of good advice.
No-one else stood a chance
next to those slate bones.
She could break bones, in case
of emergency break the glass
to summon her from tea,
from staring at a blade of grass.
Obliged like promising to keep
Sabbath: thankfulness. Obliged 
like waving pedestrians to safely go.
Oblige all the first-period students
to write an ode, teaching
Joseph’s dream to them stars,
all tapping anxious implements
on the laminate. When I forget 
how to poem she whispers: ulna,
femur, tarsal. Whip up some
sinews, gurl. She’s on a plane
clacking keys, she’s exhuming
rare tulip bulbs. Her greenhouse
like a snapshot of Flevoland,
windmills spinning, rows & rows
of flowers for bones. The glasses 
of water by the bay windows 
in the small houses 
clean & the bone chimes
toll in the distance.

Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram

Joey Gould, a Leo & a writing tutor, authored The Acute Avian Heart (2019, Lily Poetry Review) & Penitent>Arbiter (2022, Lily Poetry Review). Twice nominated for Bettering American Poetry and once for a Pushcart Prize, Joey’s work has appeared in Moonchild, The Compassion Anthology, Memoir Mixtapes, & District Lit. They also write reviews & serve as Poetry Editor for Drunk Monkeys. twitter: @toshines. ig: joey.toshines. website: