Lucas Peel

things i cannot tell my mother

the sliding glass door was not the escape i hoped it’d be

post bindlestick / razor scooter fight or flight

orchidbloom of binky & babyteeth / blanketfort

curfewbreaker / first light spills like a puddle / hipwader

splash into tomorrow / eat the moon like candy

mouthbreather / memory is a child clutching your leg

in the park / i am both child & remembrance

shrine containing only refrigerators / macaroni picture frames

i want to explain / call home

how the sidewalk lies / how careless i am

curious boy / nothing knows truth like absence

exhale / your leaving will be an invitation

i can / will follow you out

learning to use my father’s gun

your skin was like mine of course : guilty / of trespass. to be inside of something

/ and not worry if you are welcome / is a blessing / that only comes with arrogance

/ amnesia. / the way freckles dance on your face when you laugh with / at my lack

of better judgement is something like this: bleached by the sober-as-fuck sun

/ disappointment in its leathery drought / and what i’ve turned away from:

the interstate / the chickenwire fence / the guilt they were built on / in place of.

/ the fact that we are existing atop all these bones is a testament to survival / i think

/ or some other kind of haunting / if you are not here to suck out the last bits of marrow

from our collective kill / this pledge of allegiance / this communion of violence /

there just will be another desperate animal / coming out of the forest / to take your place.

Lucas Peel is a big mouth moonlighting as an adult. His work has appeared in a handful of shelves on his mother's dresser. Lucas currently lives in Aiea, Hawaii. We do not know what he is yelling about.

Recent Posts

See All

Grant Souders

COMEAROUND The bear now. Instead of what is what. One might come to expect. To expect is, being central to our view, bobbling the ball and not in fang, the bear Sinks a paw into the buoyant and isolat