Thunderstorm after Robert Creeley’s “The Rain” Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Let our calloused heels bump against each other, our rough elbows, our banged up hearts. If you love me, be for me like a summer storm: warm, wide, a constant patter. Let me be for you like this rain: unlooked for, steady, full of sky. Let’s grow puddles together. I would share my weedy garden, if you wanted. When our clothes are soaked, we can peel them off, leave their weight in the gutters with the leaf rubbish and the street dust. We’ll both wear one rubber boot and keep one bare foot. We and our vulnerable ankles can plunge into the down-running rivers; wash all our open skin: wash sternum & nape of neck & small of back, wash away. Let’s be, for each other, the getting: the getting up, the getting by, the getting back up again. The getting too old for this, the gotten while the getting was good, the good kind of gotcha: where what we’ve got is each other, and the unholy surprise of it all is that at the end of the day we are truly, wordlessly grateful.
Ann Arbor, Spring Blue sky sounds: bells, birdsong, wind through the newly furred pussywillow buds. Lighter feet, and lighter layers. Slimmer stems to our drinks and more stems to our bouquets. Crocuses, snowdrops, hyacinth. Look, See how I adore you. we declare to our lovers, fists stuffed full of blooms and wax paper. Look what bounty waiting can bring. With the wide blades of tulips emerging in the yard and the windows open, we scrub away the accrued salt-grime of winter. We excavate our closets, throw out old magazines. Our coats are once again banished to closets and storage bins. Our scarves resign themselves to their seasonal relevance and skulk away to the attic. We are fond of the air again, and it is fond of us. We read our books on the wide steps of the library. We smile at neighbors again. We start spinning the globes in our offices—jabbing our fingers at the possibilities of the world, wondering about the width of the sky.
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 bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Emma McGlashen (she/her or they/them) is a Brooklyn poet, publicist, and freelance reviewer. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in L’Ephemere Review, Miniskirt Mag, BOMBUS Press, and elsewhere. They can be found on twitter or instagram at @Emma_McGlashen. Visit their website here.