Poetry by Robert Beveridge

Twin opossums
in the cranium,
pot boils behind
the eyes. If this
doesn’t raise
the dead, little will.
Fingernails descend
the medulla’s chalk
board, skewers
turn, turn, turn
over a bonfire,
roast ears and nose
to a delectable
crunch. The doctors
say the medicine
will help if you take
it an hour before
an attack. Two
shots of motor oil
and a salt lick
sometimes has
the same effect
but you never know
until you try.

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 Erotica Blog, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and The Impossible Archetype, among others.

Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash