"Bea is a lover of all things colorful whether it be people, places, or things. She loves filmmaking, writing, and curating Campbell Hall's art gallery, but also spends a considerable amount of time baking cakes and eating breakfast food.”
People Season
don’t pretend to know the words if you don’t know the song don’t shape your mouth uncertainly and try to sing along
the lines are sifted in between the alternating laughs
they pool in slicks of mumbled sounds that stack in paragraphs the breaks in sound that stop too short are scraped like open sky as every sound that drips unheard you misidentify
your stomach softens watery, your throat contracts too tight your eyes will flit like moths who fry in artificial light
your fingers fold in creases like a ripping envelope,
you’re mirroring in empathy the way their shoulders slope the chorus comes back miserable as it finds time to lurch it’s yelling and it’s slowing like an angry man in church
Humans in November
The coat rack is empty, the door is unlocked And this love eats at them like disease There are ghosts in the guest room
A cup and a dust broom,
I’m still making you a grilled cheese
When You’re Upstairs with a Boy You Don’t Love
I think about waitresses who work on Thanksgiving
in diners that sit on state borders
they call me honey and wear too much lipstick and don’t need to write down their orders
I think about customers who eat on Thanksgiving
the waitress is somehow their mother
one of them serves while one of them eats but they don’t seem to know one another