by Robert Beveridge

Lemming

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

TEASE

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