My Boyfriend and Jesus His hands are twice the size of mine and their thickness is exactly the size of his prayers, but my boyfriend doesn’t pray to God. My boyfriend is a carpenter who makes yurts, circular places to live in a forest’s grasp. The way he holds me is a belief, a kind of sinless comfort, a kind of sensitive morning light peering through the eyeglass of an icicle. He murmurs about his mother and how they don’t talk anymore. After all, Jesus didn’t have kids. Now I secretly watch four year olds cup their parents’ hands and wish I could live within the static flesh of their firm grasp, one pad of skin tucked into another, my boyfriend and his mother. My bodily limitations are exhausting, but I’ve become comfortable with this failing pride, this holy idea of not being able to procreate, of consuming her child’s best years, of hearing a mother’s constant silence, which is a bowl of severed snakes floating in whole milk, because I want to give him kids. I want that fucking snakebowl and to eat it too.
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
Sam Boudreau (He/They) is a queer Vermonter living near Lake Champlain. He is a graduate from Middlebury College and the University of Montana’s MFA program in poetry, where he taught Intro to Composition, Intermediate Composition, and a Poetry Workshop. Previously, Sam was a reader for CutBank Literary Magazine and Electric Literature. His writing generally resonates on the body’s interconnectedness with the environment and queer intimacy (or its lack thereof).
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