Poetry by Robert Beveridge: Consumed, For You, and I Have Once Kissed You

Consumed

Take me as the sun rises
night spent in conversation
your voice husky with cigarettes
and lust

feathers touch my eyes
stroke my lips
as you kiss my chest,
neck, touch my
cheek. I feel
every move your
slick body makes against mine.

By morning light and cockcrow
I can take in your form
offer myself to your eyes
without judgment or comparison
but later, dream.
I will think of you forever.

 

For You

For you
I would walk across mountains
and score my feet with stones

For you
I would ask forgiveness
and plead the case of the bourgeois

For you
I would become the hermit
and take up the reed recorder

For you
I would cast aside my sun-clothing
and don the cloak of reason

For you
I would become the businessman
and play with numbers all day

For you
I would ask for a house
in suburbia with daffodils

For you
I would walk across the street
for a quart of milk
I Have Once Kissed You
“Van Gogh once kissed a cypress tree, and I have once kissed you.”–Hayden Carruth, “Sonnet #1 (1979)”

Your throat a sweet breath
of cigarette and wine. I
hold your coat as you slip
your arms in, kiss the back
of your hair, walk alone
to my car.
I sit, hope

you’ll come out and kiss
me goodbye, a real kiss
your tongue pressed like
communion on mine, breath
of sweet wine and tobacco
against me cheek

but you stay inside.
I wonder the entire
time I drive home.

 

Robert Beveridge
Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Zombie Logic Review, and The Literateur, among others.

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