Photo Source: PxHere
Necropol
We sleep together
under the cold dark
sun of night
her father between bodies
keeps us from touching
moving together in sleep
the children are lost in the snowdrift
we have searched for them all day
now the warmth of the campfire dies
the cold
of the deep
north surrounds us
yet we cannot touch
for shelter
or warmth
The Rite
The old monk sits shirtless in the chair beside me
on the redeye flight from Newark to Pittsburgh.
His torso is covered with red scars
where, he says, he has beaten himself
with leather whips daily for forty-five
wonderful years.
In all that time he has
lain with many women yet he has never taken one
in the way we of the younger generation do.
Instead, he says, a wistful cast to his voice,
they serve a different function; these slight wraiths
cleanse my soul. Gazing on beauty makes me think
beautiful thoughts. I nod my head, silent.
Spelling Bee
I
on the blackboard
chalk sketches
a barrage of nine-year-olds
cover their ears
and shriek in chorus
II
spelling the names
of those around us:
Loki
Pluto
Hades
Darryl
III
the teachers begs a spelling
only three children left
the prize a plastic
St. Christopher.
IV
Darryl is God spelled backwards.
V
Bow-tied child
spelling death
on the blackboard.
Tiresias
come down
to my white powdery river
you can just take
a quick dip
and get out
I won't keep you around
skinny-dipping only
in this place baby
you're so beautiful
clothes shouldn't hide
that body
once you swim
you'll want to come back
just like the rest
I know
I've been here forever
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.
