Robert Beveridge

One Poem by Robert Beveridge

(Today we conclude what we hope is our first run of work by Robert Beveridge–The Eds.)

“A Woman Weeping in a Torn Chemise…”

(–Pierre Reverdy, “Heartbreak”)

The shadow lurks

in the corner

as I raise my head

to drain another drink

I try to avoid looking

it prowls, waits

for me to rise

only its feet are visible

in this forest of emotions

there is something rather charming

about its blackness

I wouldn’t see it

but a few shards of peach silk

are stuck to its claws

and the woman

sitting at the other end of the bar

tears spilling into her whiskey

there are needle-marks on her arms

it’s too bad

she could have been attractive

if she weren’t so pale

so thin

her ripped garment

exposes nothing really

the shadow shifts

in its corner again

in my examination of the girl I’ve forgotten it

it seems to have gotten a bit colder in here

I shiver

as peach shards come closer

Robert Beveridge

Poems by Robert Beveridge (Day Two)

Eulogy

She ate chicken hearts

still beating, lambs’ brains.

Said it made her healthy.

She got

what she came for,

her brother said

before the trial.

Robert Beveridge

I Have an Embarrassing Story

You’ve beamed over to the wreck

and you scope out

anything that looks

like it might get you a few bucks

for it if you haul it back.

We may not have found much

but we lit a fire in the remnants

of a greenhouse, swapped stories

of more lucrative runs. One of the new

guys talked about hunting cats

in the ruins of a religious apocalypse.

A second talked about the gleam

of firelight off the armor

of a machine pistol in the hands

of an android, the words

that let him live while we traded

thermoses of liquor from worlds

none of the others had ever seen.

Robert Beveridge

Poems by Robert Beveridge (Day One)

(Today we begin three days of poetry by Robert Beveridge, with two fine efforts. We hope the readers enjoy them as much as we do–The Eds.)

Client

He considered somnambulance

as a way to attract attention

but his priest counselled

against its dangers

in a mountainous region.

Instead, he projects himself,

possesses the bodies

of orange marmosets.

Robert Beveridge

Dow Saah (“Sweet Bean Paste”)

Steam rises as the buns

firm up. Lamplight

flickers over the pages

of the old cookbook,

the next page perhaps

a recipe for fish, tofu,

breast of longpig.

The scratches at the door

intensify. The buns

are almost ready. Blow

out the lamp.

Robert Beveridge

(header provided by DWB)