Two Poems

by Robert Beveridge


Stroke the fur
of a lemming, drowned
soon it will be your turn

That night we watched
thousands of lemmings
fling themselves from rainy cliffs

it was that time and later
you cried out as a bloody tear
was shed from between your lips

stroke the fur
of a lemming drowned in blood
its lips stretched back to reveal

perfect pointed teeth:
your rush to the cliffs
began that night


Tonight's rain has yet to arrive
though the skulls of the sensitive
have foretold it the entire day.
Clouds have gathered, dispersed. Seers
predict drought in the face of all evidence
to the contrary. Prayers for rain
are uttered, dances and festivals
undertaken. Still the clouds hang dark,
pregnant, out of reach. The ground cracks.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others