Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent/upcoming appearances in Midwest Zen, egoPHobia, and FRiGG, among others.

Gossamer

Platinum frays, pork bellies
fall on suspected terrorist
activity in Ottumwa. Daybreak
found you in arrears. You get out
pick and shovel, prepare to mine
401(k)s. It’s been a while
since you’ve done that kind
of labor. You look forward
to dirtied hands, the buildup
of calluses on fingers never
meant to play the piano anyway.

Recipe Can Be Doubled

in their twin
apartment
buildings

one would
sit and write

the other
would sit
and write

and when 
their paths
would cross

on the bus
or in the grocery
store

neither
would say
a thing

Tarantella

What matters?
It is not the steps,
the speed; it is motion,
ripple of hip,
bronze, exposed,
hair, black, flying
wavelets, cuffs
against my wrists, my ankles.

The dance possesses.
The gods emerge.

Pull me, stunned and sore,
into your eyes, your mouth,
pink lace of breast and belly.

This possession
is not replacement
but assimilation:
my thoughts with you, in you.

The dance hypnotizes.
Names are power, magic.

I whisper you and see,
again, your twist, response,
your dance.
It writhes, rings me,
this prison, this temple
with walls of flesh.

Thoughts are liquid.
You do this to me.