Poetry by Robert Beveridge

                               Matthias Liffers CC



​THREE MEN FROM THE EAST

She never believes me
when I tell her how beautiful
she is in my eyes, stunning
as a barley field in July,
green just gone to amber
and almost ready for harvest.
A celebration of every bowl
of gruel we’ve eaten, of every
bowl we haven’t had yet.

We both remember summers
nestled in crooks of the tree
across the road, how there
seemed no better way to pass
the time than watch stalks
sway in the breeze, imitate
them, talk about the nothings
so vital to fourteen year olds.

Today I walk behind the tree, hop
the fence, walk through the park
to find her where I always do,
section 34, row D, and tie
a sheaf a barley, the only flag
that makes sense. And I tell her
once again how beautiful she is,
and I know she doesn’t believe me.

​

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others.

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