E-ISSN 2457-0265

Vol. 5 Issue 2

Robert Beveridge 


for Gina Esposito


Gina, won't you come out to play?

Open your dress

and walk naked bathed

in the truth of the new moon.

Only then can you be you,

only then will the magic

of your breast be realized.

These rituals, they mean

only beauty to a man

I cannot see what it means

all the way down deep

to be a woman

under the new moon.

I only know that you

are beautiful in its light.









Drops run down the window.

Blanket thick, but cold.

Even the birds have fled

to wherever birds go in storms.






Our Sunnyside Adventure


Of course it was Louis who called

for a pit stop at the most hipster

coffee shop you can conceive of,

who rushed up to the counter

with the craziest expression he

could muster and ordered

an everything beagle  with welsh

rabbit.  The rest of us were content

with caffeine, cream cheese, the code

to the restroom printed at the bottom

of every receipt to dissuade the homeless

from taking a dump here instead

of the alley out back. Henry checked

the board to see if tonight was open mic, José

just sipped his triple espresso and flexed,

relaxed, flexed, relaxed a foot numb

from fifteen hundred miles of gas pedal.


Three hours later Henry is onstage, strums

Danzig, passes it off as Hank Williams,

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

and the rubes throw money into his hat

while the rest of us sit there and try to cram

as much caffeine into our bloodstreams as we

can for the next leg of the trip and Louis still

finds a stray hair in his mouth every so often.





The Peg-Legged Man and the Red-Headed Woman


The snake curls around your

fist as easy as your index

finger curled around a trigger.

The cops replaced by congregation,

the shouts of “put ‘em up!”—no,

those still sound the same.

And the revelation, when it

comes, still blinds. All you’ve

changed is the particular

flavor of the Magic 8 Ball

you ask for guidance.

The answer remains static.







I almost set aflame

the last poem I write you

with its veiled proposals

and prayers to things

I can't believe in anymore.


It came to me

that such a thing

could not be right.


I hide it, half hope

you will find it, see,

restore my faith in prayers


The Right Kind of Happiness

for Jeanne Volpe


I woke this morning


with the red satin

around me


Of course, I'd met you

the night before

dark redhead

with silver-lined eyes

hummingbird pulse

beneath a white lace trellis


and in a moment

of lost control

I might have asked your name

not content

just to know you

as the dark girl

whose lips matched her hair


in a moment

of unexpected generosity

you might have accepted

my curious advances

and brought me home

surrounded me in satin

red like your hair

like the lips

that formed dark syllables

as we met:
“I wondered, too.”


We lie side by side

in this dark room

nascent yet familiar feel

of a new body next to mine

as if we discover each other

again for the first time







The Right Kind of Happiness, 2, break


pressed together

we talk of nothing

familiar with the territory

the small things

that help me remember

the person who abducted

my desire

and carried it

to this red room

the room behind your lips

behind your hair.



About the Poet

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.

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