Catie Rosemurgy lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her second poetry collection, The Stranger Manual, is forthcoming from Graywolf Press. She is the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Award for Emerging Female Writers and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. She teaches creative writing at The College of New Jersey. Neighbor (5): Miss Peach Is Real Catie Rosemurgy To find something beautiful one must have no idea what it is. The skin warbles. We all become the throats of birds disappearing under the sea. I had no idea, for example, that this display of metal was my wedding. How I loved the shining chairs no one could sit in, the hilarious but lovely         uselessness of what we’ve made. All my years of knifey girls were there with their caustic ribs, their hairpin poses, their actual hair dark with hatred. They got drunk and blew my mind: it sucks to be them! The body is a thousand arrows pointing at itself. We laughed together like children with the same bad parents. The sweetness after the parade of overconfidence is unbearable. We still have hearts. My god, we need each other. And her, the most pretend one, now that you mention it, in white, and me, dissolved almost completely but around here somewhere. Though it was unofficial, I drew her rag-like into my mouth and made off to the beginning-of-time cave.