Thou Shalt Not Covet
it’s all I can do
not to immolate today.
mid-afternoon, my neighbor
fucks his boyfriend loudly,
relentlessly, my ear
pressed to the wall.
my body holding its still breath
as if
I could steal
their heat through
the sagging brick
should I focus hard enough.
the males of a species,
always crashing
into one another.
whether to kill or to
keep. limbs or antlers
or any appendage
that fits the bill. desire a bloodied tooth.
a name cried out.
it isn’t mine,
no matter how I will it to be.
mouth split open
like nebulae
in a cosmic reckoning.
miraculous and unknowable
entrails of stars.
my hand
steady in movement,
dragging me
toward the lake of pleasure,
its green face
splintered with sunlight.
a name said
again and again. like prayer.
like warning.
crashing against the walls
and the sky all the same.
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
Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and coffee devotee from New York. Sometimes he is in love, but just as often he is not. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in numerous publications, including The Penn Review, Sky Island Journal, and ONE ART. He can be found on Twitter and Instagram: @dannyjbrennan
miniskirt magazine 