Asphodel 
Robert Beveridge
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, D├жdalus 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.
