Poetry—Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in table//FEAST, Small World City, and In Parentheses, among others.

Deep Six

The scratches on your

leg have widened, look

more like chasms. You

use them to store your

money so you don’t get

mugged at the bar. You

head out to the alley

to take a piss and can’t

help but think that bourbon

bottle followed you.

First Snow

 i

Celestial Mom

flicks sheets over the sky

which float uneven

down to the ground.

Underfoot crunch

on 3AM walk home.

Voices stop me:

 ii

students from the deep south

have never seen it before.

They ball the snow,

hit each other with gasps,

squeals, laughs.

I am always content

to watch discovery

at times like this.

 iii

It has never snowed

on Ashley's grave until now.

Snowcovered stone

and lifeless whitecapped grass

flit across my mind

as I hear the voices

of the quick.

 iv

I finish my journey home

but not to bed

more important

things to be done

tonight.

From the freezer

a bottle hits my hand.

Robert Beveridge

First Snow, 2, no break

I venture out,

back to the place

where I can watch

the early antics

of these Southerners.

 v

Smoke lit, feet up,

burn of peppermint

schanpps in the back

of my throat.

Sometimes it happens

that even when you think

you are most alone

someone is with you

 vi

Snowflakes melt

touch the heat

of copper hair

glint of burnished fire

ponytail swing

makes me twist

and almost hope

the ghost of Ashley

had come back

to play in the snow.

Instead someone else

has found my 

unstructured snowfort

of benches and trashcans.

Someone I’ve seen

day after day in class,

rushed hellos as she

heads to the back

seconds before class begins,

never enough time to ask

for a date,

prayers to mice and gods

unanswered. Or not.

I kiss her without words

snowmelt

Robert Beveridge

First Snow, 3, no break

in juncture of lips

quick tongues steal

warmth from one

another

 vii

soon after

I go to bed

alone

Manifesto 1998

These sticks are not sticks

but petrified reptiles,

staves wielded by magi

who no longer see.

It is said they are better

at detecting faults in loamy ground

than normal wood.

Push Down and Turn

the specific gravity

of the fluid you require

to seep through your eardrum

and set things right

is the exact same as the size

of the monster that visits

every time you fall asleep

Veracity

Gentleness is a lie.

Culture is a lie.

Please is a lie.

Thank you is a lie.

Death might not be a lie

(but who knows?).

Fear is a lie.

Hate is a lie.

What's left is the truth.

Whispering Heart

The stars spread out around us somewhat obscured

by the snow that whispers its way to the ground

the world has been reduced to this field

and a few lights that signify the town over the next hill

the fire and the blanket thrown over us

are not the things keeping us warm

although the snow that falls on your breasts

melts without hesitation

our fingers intertwined

our lips together

our hair entangled

are keeping us warm

the fire plays across your body

casts breast-shadows that flicker

over you as you crouch above me

hungry

only serves to make your eyes

gleam twin sapphires

the swing of your hair

makes shadows dance on your cheeks

that are red not from the cold

but my kisses

if only this Valentine's night

could last until July