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.