At the bonfire of flowers
For months we've been communicating.
Scribbles on bathroom stalls,
notes wedged into a Coke bottle,
and some breadcrumbs — artful.
A scattering upon forest floor
would be romantic, but we just have the
little patch of campus trees.
So don't be greedy, I chide myself,
while I read your sourdough.
I've been thinking about sneaking words
onto Craigslist, seeing how long it takes
you to notice. I keep an eye out my own
windows for flashlight morse code, the
long and weak interruptions of darkness.
Yesterday, I wasn't trying to be cute
when I whispered into a tin can,
asking you for a love that wouldn't swallow me.
Still, you urged me to hoist every flavorful thing
up an oak tree, including my chapstick.
I just wanted you to say
I was worth devouring.
willfire
wildflower
wolfeyes
you always say
lipstick shape mouth on facelace
I reply
and together though apart
we chant
let's listen to the pretty sing
Since we first met via old library
catalog cards, two nerds writing analog,
we haven't seen each other face to face.
Soon, we insist.
You once said in your letters,
origami — organs and cranes —
we should shatter glass perfume
bottles on the local footbridge.
It'll free our nostrils
of sorrow, I agreed.
But before then,
how about some flames.
I'd like the heat.
Every year, bitchflowers, butchflowers,
& femme hours make summer from spring.
Honeybees and bumble
rest upon shoulders,
so very sleepy from hives
and napping on soil.
Maybe in the future, we'll exhale
breath on the same picnic pillows.
Maybe at night, we will flirt
through shadow puppetry.
I think this sort of love is possible.
For now though, a bonfire of blossoms.
When the sun hits noon, we'll each
step from the shadows.
In my pocket is the epitaph and matches.
Already, I smell the sparks of lavender.
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
Reece Rowan Gritzmacher (they/them) lives in a mountain town surrounded by ponderosa pines, but grew up hugging mossy trees in the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Barrelhouse, About Place Journal, Chapter House Journal, Eunoia Review, Bending Genres, and elsewhere.
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