Varsha 2019 Issue, Poems - Robert Beveridge




By Robert_Beveridge


Enough to chase the night
away but not enough to banish.


Enough to darken skin, keep
sunglasses from the photosensitive


but not enough to read by. Bartenders
know their stock by touch. Skin


is a commodity here, like all else.
Only the wealthiest take their riches


to the grave when a finger may buy
a month's rent. Blade strokes


down spine, over sides bare
with want. No one suffers the peel


without anesthetic, but fools
try right around Easter every


year. Take, eat. This is priceless.






Six weeks of sun. What do clouds
remain hidden behind? Ground


cracks, shamans whisper prayers
to rivers, faucets, the gods


of the New Mexico desert.

Your ginger and mint left to rot;
mixology impossible in this drought,


populace too concerned
with bathing, cornmeal,


the price of tea in any country
with more than a trace of rainfall.


You contemplate your final lime,
in the end cannot resist, cut it


with a razor too dry to rust.



Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.


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