I will fold us into the washing machine
and wait until the rumbling stops.
I will grab the essentials: the coffee pot, the potted plants,
the wedding blanket your mother quilted us,
and all the love letters I wish you’d write.
We will scuba through the lava flows,
swim across the stars, and for formality,
we’ll tell the world
we were so sad to see our city go.
We won’t tell a soul I set the dryer
on heavy spin every day,
just to get the Earth flirting with the idea
of shaking, or how we both practiced
holding our breath when we’d kiss.

Whatever happens,
I hope we’re not here long enough
to taste the ash.
I hope, when we go running past the Tetons,
so close to a sweet escape,
the buffalo won’t be able
to keep up with our stride.

By Schuyler Peck


Schuyler Peck holds a Bachelor’s degree in creative writing and she’s hoping to soon move to the rainy daze of Seattle. Her work has been featured in JuxtaProze Magazine, Literary Sexts Vol 2, Rising Phoenix Review, Persephone’s Daughters Magazine, and Words Dance Magazine, as well as her own book of poetry, A Field of Blooming Bruises. When Schuyler’s not writing about existential sadness and all around loneliness, she’s likely gardening. She loves you. SchuylerPeck.tumblr.com

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