Townies | by Katie Kemple

Upstate teens, late summer night,
plant-thick air
and sweet-mowed grass.
Zipped down jeans, back-roads
pool. Apples ripening,
hard as stones.
Midweek gathering, chlorinated eyes. 
Blue liquid
piercing naked thighs. 
Coveted weekender’s paradise—
we help a friend sit.
Thongs trim grass.
The sun sets into verdant mountains,
the moon tops off
a jug of starlight.
We only linger long enough
to cool, passing our time
in a stolen pool.
One of us blurts: “Let’s drive
home naked—” the upholstery rough
on our backs like carpet.
Strange to lose that fence of cloth,
gravel rumbling,
grinding butts.
The thrilling fear: Can drivers see us?
Mammals speed
in a metal canon.
Truck lights slap—
double blind of beams,
reveals our invisibility.

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

Katie Kemple (she/her) grew up in the Shawangunks of New York, reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets to overgrown pastures. She has a BFA in creative writing from Emerson College, and an MA in Executive Leadership from Georgetown. She lives in San Diego with her husband, two kids, a pug, and a goldfish. Her work has appeared recently in Sparked, Gleam, Stickman Review, Olney Magazine, and Lucky Jefferson.