Dusk

The negative space of the shaded
suede — broken only by patches: the Joshua trees.

Stiff arms raised high — caught in a freeze frame, they
stand as in a social distanced gathering to watch the sun 

lower over the bizarre: down, down:
bright rays turn to golden glow framing dusty
silhouettes, soon ready for the Milky Way to take it’s
turn for admiration.

Endings

I’m tempted to say: “come on over.”
“Yes,” and
“Let’s.” 

And I know you would. Because I know
you want to. And 

I want to. But
we both know how that story ends. And honestly

I’m tired of endings.

Birthday

Dip down, through the turbulent—into that pocket that holds a stomach
drop,
settles, slides into seatbelts-off-stand-up-and-stretch
kind of flying.
Abandon all thoughts—free to walk around,
not grip
white-knuckled to the arms of all the persons
next to you,
walking with you, sleeping beside you. Here is the space,
just
as the forties lift off, every thought no longer
hangs
in the air—that seesaw feeling disappears,
fades
with one night stands, textable regrets, late night
snacks,
long walks home, talking shit. Not landing just
yet,
settling in for a long smooth flight.

Author’s Biography

D Larissa Peters grew up in Indonesia. Somewhat of a nomad, she meandered around the East Coast for more than 10 years before moving to California—in the middle of a pandemic. Her most recent poems have appeared in the Makarelle, Last Leaves Magazine, Carolina Muse, Pocket Poetry and has a few forthcoming pieces elsewhere.