poetry by robert beveridge

Bread and Circus

It was a dream,
a dream of grease
and stone-grey sky. The world
ended at the cyclone fencing,
the lake gone, disappeared
in a mist of night and fog,
snow, rain. The curls
plastered to your face,
held by wind. You pressed
a ruby ring into my hand,
and though your lips
moved not, I heard you
say “it's good
to see you,
how what was dead
for many years
is once again alive.”
I woke, the lake
in my nose; it was
in the shower I saw
your ring around my finger.

Kawasaki

Have you found another way home, through
the back alleys, the dark forest, the lymph nodes?
You told me you awoke this morning to the sound
of coal frying, but could not quite put your finger
on the county that produced that particular smell.
Bituminous, with notes of chocolate, leather,
the parade of fools you fear are already in line
in front of your cash register at the used book store,
whose conversation you dread you’ll have to suffer
along with their limp, wet bills pulled from socks,
bras, incisions in the flesh used the day before
for laparoscopic surgery. The clothesline the owner
strung behind the registers is always full by noon,
fans at full force, but you still have to grab the money
with tongs, drop it into deposit bags with as little
contact as possible. Sometimes you think black lung
would be preferable, breakfasts of tumor McMuffins
and the kind of coffee you’re more apt to find
used as industrial paint stripper. But it sure wakes you up.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Datura, The Minison Project, and FEED October Series, among others.