Two poems by Robert Beveridge

The Big Bad

By Robert Beveridge

You sent me saucy pictures
from the freezer aisle at Target
only to have them come through
black as the mane of your
favorite literary stallion. Later,
when you led him to water, he
approved enough to send me
a photo, so crisp the condensation
chilled my fingers. I wanted to touch
you to warm them, held my phone
tighter instead, took in the chill,
the moisture, wrapped it around me
for safekeeping until I can return
it to you, lip to lip, nervous hand
to nipple, breath as tremulous as
liquor to stronger, saltier wind.



The Plural of Pancreas

nubbed, soft
half-deflated footballs
parade down Seventh Ave.
in possession
of the corpse
of Vassily Totentanz
the nihilist.

Cabbie veers
around the procession.
“Only in New York,”
he says to his
passenger, the actress
Chasity Inanout.

“Inflate the damn things!”


​

 About the author: Robert Beveridge has been living in and around Northeast Ohio for over two decades, and writing poetry for a good deal longer than that. Work can recently be found in Third Wednesday, Guide to Kulchur, and the anthology Stories from the Polycule (Thorntree Press, 2015). He can also be found making people very uncomfortable with loud noises atxterminal.bandcamp.com.

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