We walk across a field of fallen peaches, breaking their soft flesh. We know decay sweetens the soil. Years ago we gutted all our Midwestern gods, and now we wear their husks as party clothes. We go dancing in the catacombs under churches, and afterwards, we guzzle honeysuckle, shake hands with wasps and houseflies. They hum in quiet appreciation, ask us about the kids, the dogs, the green beans. I’m sutured down to the soul and so are you, stitched together by mothers who did the best they could, fathers who were a raspy echo in the woods. What I’m saying is, we never stopped aching, but the peach juice running down our arms enthralls us every afternoon. What was left of a titan said, Gaze into the pit of me. Together, we fell down its throat. At the bottom was a lake. Crickets kept the time. The stars beat down their light. We lassoed the crescent moon, sent it swimming in the water like a canoe. Not having oars, we floated aimlessly. I kissed your temple, and you licked my wounds clean. All this to say, I have been continuing despite everything, and I know you have, too.
Kimberly Ramos is a queer Filipina writer from Missouri. They dream of becoming a cryptid and haunting the Midwest. You can read more of their work at kimramoswrites.carrd.co.