Poetry: Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge

Asphodel  

Green petals flutter

to the ground outside the window.

The cat, predatory

follows them

with its eyes.

 

One last stroke

of the gong, then bang!

the ritual is over

and we stand cleansed,

ordained.

Marriage is such a brutal business.

 

You touch the Baphomet

necklace hidden beneath your blouse.

Your eyes reflect the faraway:

 

you must remember

asphodel's petals

or the smell of flea powder

that haunts the cat

to this day

 

How traumatic

to be forced

into the iron tub

of flea shampoo

and scrubbed,

scrubbed until  'clean'

screamed from every pore

and dead skin and fleas

sloughed off in waves

under the final rinse.

 

Trauma, yes

but for a greater goal:

the cat now sleeps

curled on the pillow

above us.

***

The Burning

Metropolis, Part 12

 

                        I

 

Bobby looked out the window

looked for Mrs. Solebury

and her friends. Mr. Jackson

at the grocery store

said they played in town

every night, you couldn't

see 'em except for their eyes

their red eyes that sparkle

with the light of crosses afire

but you could hear 'em

and they sounded just like

they were still alive.

But all Bobby could see

was the orange glow

of crosses

 

His dad had checked in on him

for the night, would be achair

with his beer and TV now

or down at the bar with friends.

 

He clutched the heart tighter

and watched the glow

get bigger, bigger

 

bigger

 

as more crosses were lit

more families comforted

or just in lockstep

 

but tonight the light is different

bigger, scrapes the clouds

as if they were all sucked up

to heaven

                (or rained down)

 

baseball cap and corduroys

and don't forget the heart

down the stairs out the door

run to the only place

that makes sense

 

watch the fire grow

from the porch of Miss

Solebury's house

don't be afraid

of the red eyes around you

hundreds, all turned

toward the glow

 

                        II

 

she stands face toward the window

of the high rise, every few minutes

turns, walks to the kitchen,

back again

so empty now, so empty

without him. She touches

his favorite chair, a sock

on the floor, a jar of pickled

eggs in the fridge (have to

throw those away, she thinks,

I never did like them).

 

The magistrate

had bought her coffee,

held it to her lips

as she sipped and cried

stayed silent

as she talked about him

the way they met

his job downtown

(something with numbers)

his hatred of the subway

 

          I know,

the magistrate said here.

          I know

          he was scared

          of the trains.

          Everyone scared

          of the trains, a little

 

          even me, and I

          live with 'em.

 

But that was that

and this is this

and she looks out the window

at the glow from the crosses

wonders if anyone still believes

in ghosts, if she does,

if they will be together again

 

out the window the glow brightens

not the normal bright but the larger

brilliant bright of light loosed of bonds

 

          walk away

she hears a voice in her head say

          walk away

          let it burn.

 

It is familiar, comforts her.

Most of all it is right.

 

She walks out the door

of the apartment complex

towards the edge of town.

 

                        III

 

They've chased him from his

home again. He crouches

in a doorway, stares

at the orange glow

around him.

 

          Time I took

          a vacation

he says to himself

          Yep

          gotta get out of town

          for a few weeks

         sleep under the stars.

***

 

Commune

I stroke the fur

of the kitten, drowned.

By the river

an ancient beast waits

for Papa Drum to poke

its head out

of its hidey-hole.

 

There is a hill there

a woman reclines

on its top, reading Paterson.

 

snip snip snip

Guillaume cuts coupons

from the Sunday Times

adding to the euphony

 

beatsnipmew<<word>>

***

 

Parousia

When you stand up and question the judgment of god

When you adopt a child from Finland and name her Orexia

When you discover that the darker the alcohol, the harder the questions

When you’ve looked at all the ground beneath your feet

When you stand and stare out at the silent gulf, now absent of oil

When the census-taker comes and you offer her almond cookies

When the ambulance comes to take you to the hospital but drives in circles

When the sun goes down but the moon refuses to rise

When the last embers of your final wish fade into the endless white

When the travel agency calls and says your trip to Rodez has been cancelled due to lack of leather straps

***

 

What if the Sadducees Were No Longer Sad?

No matter what the application, you sprinkle

a few drops of vanilla into the bowl first.

Whether this is superstition, religious rite,

or passed down from your paternal grandmother

I have never asked. It gives a distinctive

taste to the clams casino. You decide

to expand the tradition, take an aspergillum

with you to the tables, bless your chips

with limoncello and passages from Ulysses.

The dealer faces you, Dædalus in a suit

of blue wicker, a MacDuff kilt. You will hit

on a twenty only if black and seedy.

***

 

Bio: Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Pierian, Maryland Literary Review, and Qutub Minar Review, among others.

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Setu, September 2025