When we make love, we let love remake us. On our bed, in others', on floors, in cornfields. They're all crucibles to us, but our favorite is: always squalor. On wandering walks at dusk, we follow roads to a grey convergence where we fuck and scratch & paint our mongrel skin. Asses & knees, tattooed: brown, gold, green. We itch as much as we smile, still undulating. When we pause, we see the millions waving, their razory arms praising a plague of stars.
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
[jp/p] is a black, queer, neurodiv soul living on the craggy shores of Maine; the misty-eyed, evergreen stretches of Washington; and the godforsaken flatlands of Texas, where even grey grass is possible. Their work has appeared in *Lighthouse Weekly*. Nine poems are forthcoming in Stoneboat Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, and Cephalopress Anthology.