Thunderstorm & Ann Arbor, Spring | by Emma McGlashen

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.