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 Phylum Press, Rat’s Ass Review, and Alone Together: Echoes of Existence in the Modern Abyss, among others.

Ordinal

The whistles as you walk
past the prison are bombs
lobbed from behind the walls.

You have no recourse with mace,
nor legality. You consider
a job as warden, the efficacy
of eighth amendment violations

and you wonder
under which amendment one should file
common courtesy.

Pie

Berry-flecked cream, salt
of caramel whipped to froth.
Incubated in warmth, moisture
until the perfect consistency.
Best fresh, but still delicious
after the drive home, anticipation.
So creamy it drizzles off
the fork, drips onto the tongue,
metallic tinge from pan. You
wonder how healthy this can be,
cannot manage to care much.

Twin

You are on every corner, behind
every column. I asked you,
once, if you were following me.
“I must have a twin,” you said.

You could not. A pale
shadow, a mortal who resembles
you. Not a twin, a duplicate
of your quickness. No other
pointed tongue flicks pink lips
in that way, or stretches, lifting
hands and eyes to heaven,
blue on blue, touch on touch.