Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Of Rust and Glass, The Museum of Americana, and Quill and Parchment, among others.

I Will Not Hearken unto Them

What you thought was a clay face, when peeled
away, turned out to have nothing beneath but muscle,
nerve, bone. The German attaché had warned us,
true, but you, impetuous fool that you are, just had
to see for yourself. And so, with a “Baruch ha-ba”,
a scalpel to the Adam’s apple, it was done. To be
fair, it did come off with as little resistance
as expected, but the head beneath was quite
the surprise. What, now, shall one do with one’s
Kren? Lock him in the attic, feed him to the pigs,
send him to the wreckers? The oracle remains 
silent. We peel back our wings, head for the mountain.

Kind of Like that One Scene in The Cracker Factory

The leaves crunched like dry cereal. You stuffed
them into your mouth a handful at a time, irrespective
of genus. You sought, you told me over shots
of wheatgrass, that perfect mix of hot-dog-casing
snap and forest floor. There was never any question
of dominion over the kingdom of brussels sprouts,
the principality of birch, the stands of maple
that stretched off into the distance once we got
outside of town. 

                             You always looked forward
to autumn’s advent, the way your bowls of sustenance
turned color. “The doctors always said the more colorful
the food, the better,” you said at least once every
September, “and this is my season to shine.”

How many goblins broke into your kitchen,
tried to pour two percent on your repast? You lost count
years ago. The defenses stand alert in the backyard;
the dinners are their own reward.

The Return of Water to the Earth

I cannot write you anymore.
Your will has drained me

a nameless animal
good for nothing except milk
and once a year my coat

all I ask in return
is some form of solitude
a moment of silence
now and again

without that I
cannot remember
how to want