poetry by robert beveridge

The Mechanic

there is a doorway. there is
passage behind it. there
is something in that passage

that requires adjustment.
the overlords decree, thus
into the gloom to find

the sprocket, the cog,
the femur, the synapse
to touch, turn, tweak, torch

into the state of perpetual
rightness, the highest
exemplar of efficient.

how something so vile, so
fulfilling, can be just what you
need, just what any of us needs.

the bolts remain, unchanged,
the immovable axes around
which the nuts tighten, tighten.

Within Normal Limits

a mustache of pollen
ethereal blue against
dead collarbone pale.
The monsters do not
lurk between the bones,
do not chew muscle
and tendon, eager hounds
at a family barbecue.
And so the test results
return within normal limits,
idiopathic, we don’t know
what’s wrong with you
syndrome. Soon, another
referral, another battery,
all too often another set
of limits so normal you
stop being able to tell
normal from pain.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Akitsu Quartery, Gamut, and Yellow Mama, among others.