If I Should Die Tomorrow, Please Note That I Will Miss the Particular after Chen Chen slippage of our misplaced kisses, the whale sounds we sing through the long ones, the sloppy habit we have of forgetting anyone else in the room, to play another round of “tongue or nose”— I will miss our co-created nonsense, but also the way we can settle into a stare for so long, eyes become rooms, imprinted places of visit when the mind wanders, or dreams; I will miss the particular blur of your face, inches away when I wake, grasping the soft incubator of your sleep-warm body— those first raindrop whispers drumming the puddle of me into living points… I will miss watching you think, waiting to hear: how after 9 months together you say, as long as it takes to grow a baby— the personal, laughing marvel of it, I will miss what we have made, the particular love that lets us be a secret again, the way we each were young, kissable promises before anyone knew us as articulate. If I should die tomorrow, no one will be able to translate this, but everyone will be reminded, of their particulars, and I will miss that magnifying way about significance.
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
Rachel is a queer poet living in Long Beach, California. She received her MFA in poetry from Long Beach State University, where she also served as editor-in-chief of the program’s literary magazine. Her work has also appeared in Foothill and RipRap.