Undercurrent Dim light, din of voices. One drink in, you pinch my sleeve, rub the fabric between your fingers and get a little skin, a spark of pain running down my spine toward pleasure. Another drink and you’re touching my ring, your words curious but your eyes looking like you want to rip it off my finger. We stay up late like we used to, roaming rooms and sharing cups. Outside, it’s unseasonably humid. The sore buds beg to be burst into bloom.
Quarantine Poem #5 On the mornings we’re both here and awake I steam oat milk in your favorite mug. Into it, I pour the pulled shots. This is known as marking the foam. The mug is one I’ve managed not to break. Not to mention all I’ve left unplugged, the cheesecake you worked so hard on that I forgot on the counter overnight, sweating under its dome. What streams to us alternates among period pieces, true crime, real housewives slinging mud. We wake up cold and go to bed hot, to dramas of our own. We sleep to reruns, wake to crabs or pugs in human clothes with human plots. The pillow, the remote, the water glass, the phones. Your lunches for the week are made. You’ve uprooted the bathroom clog. It’s been a week since we last fought. I’m writing you into a poem.
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
Elizabeth Galoozis’s poems have appeared or will soon appear in Air/Light, Sundog Lit, RHINO Poetry, Call Me [Brackets], and Sinister Wisdom, among others. She works as a librarian and lives in southern California with her wife, cat, and too many fruit trees. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram at @thisamericanliz.