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 (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others