Heather Pease
November 2019

Heather Pease is an Orange County based poet who writes and focuses on feminism, sexuality, identity, mental health, politics, and domestic violence. She writes from her own firsthand experiences, aiming to give a voice to vulnerability and asking readers to think about subjects often stigmatized. She is one of the founding members of @therealpoetsofoc, a collective of poets geared at highlighting and enhancing the existence of poetry in Orange County. She is an active part of the Orange County Poetry Community, participating in poetry events, attending workshops, and performing when offered the opportunity.  Heather is currently working on her first book of poetry with a hope to publish it in early 2020. 


Grief is the price we pay, for love.


 – Queen Elizabeth II


When the swift rot of my flesh is over

and only the slow rot of bones is left, 

will you fancy a day when there is no rain?

Reflect on a memory filled with our laughter

or imagine me among demons?

Label me a lipless monster with gnashing teeth, 

waiting to carve out my own eyes?

Will I be the pit in your stomach once peach 

blossom, fruit ripe, and juicy, running down your cheeks?

Or odd voice? A stranger in your ear, whispering grief 

can only happen where there is love. Truth turns

rose petals into thorns. 

You would never plant a garden 

where weeds could grow.


Maybe you hate 

pants, can never find 

your glasses, 

and keep my book 

on your nightstand, peeking 

out from under

your own worn journal. 

It lays ragged and bent, 

pages dogeared or bookmarked

with a gum wrapper and pressed flowers. 

You blacked out one page,

to make your own poem. 


Perhaps my book sits 

on your lover’s 

bookshelf, since your first 

I love you. When you sat 

together on the couch

and read poetry all day. 

It rained non-stop; 

the house lost power, twice. 

You saved the best 

poems for candle light

and fucked as thunder 

began to crash. 


It is conceivable you savor

malted whiskey from a tall, 

bottom heavy glass. 

It feels big yet subtle

in how it dominates your 

mouth. You tease yourself 

with delay. Until you’ve had two 

sips before opening 

my book to the middle; 

breathing in deep, searching 

for what you cannot 

put your finger on. 

Hoping to catch 

a feeling on a breath

and have your soul 



Likely, you are an explorer,

who asks the clerk 

for forbidden things, 

preferring to read rebels. 

Oh, how you meander, 

in hidden corners 

of bookshops waiting 

for your gut to stop you 

among stacks. Trace fingers over 

rows and rows hoping for 

a connection. 

Whisper titles in a séance 

inviting author 

to speak to you. 

For connection

to a heart sparked 

by kinship, 

where no words hide.  

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