Gather & Release You were once small as a lentil. Winter soup swirled & curried. My hair grew over the corners of my ears, long & waved. I had been sleeping through the late nights of the writer’s strike. I had been writing times in a blue lined notebook. I had been deciphering the features of the waxing moon. Then you fell asleep on my chest. It’s the moment the heat whirs through the vents. A moment gone & going away. Memory exhausts. Until your breath returns, I crack spines with rhythmic elegance. If words create worlds, I do not want to pronounce idyllic wrong. I will say awe. I will see clouds knotting hands. A sheaf laced & laid by a painted chocolate box, patches of light leading your eyes around corners. There’s a canoe tied to shore, drawn & drawn away. Overhead, grunts of cormorants on cliffs. Watchful before your flight, before your hand slides across paper, before I wake & embrace your small shifts, sliding through my hands & then I cannot get back to sleep.
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
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine.
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