Poems by Robert Beveridge




Tired biceps flex, fingers
struggle. Hours
of darkness, of rope.
Still no light above.
There is a deep attraction
in relaxation, the power
of arms at rest, of freefall.

One hand loosens, moves up,
grips again.
More darkness. More rope.



Your hunger is reflected
in everything about you,
from the shine of your hair
to the way your fingers
slip across the expanse
of my thigh. I feed you,
our lips and legs entwined,
and afterwards you smile,
lie beside me, sated
for a moment, before the hunger
comes upon us again.


The Lands Beyond Sleep

Together, we are the night-black
mare that ferries
the eager and addicted
to the lands beyond sleep
the worlds

               where bodies
discorporate and senses
merge without intellect

just feeling
and instinct
to guide them

together they learn
what we already know:
the art of the merge
the strength and glory
of the meld

the blissful beauty of change


Nude Piano

upright, strings
taut, aquiver. The potential
energy awaits the thin fingers,
bitten nails of the girl whose red
hair caresses the redwood frame.
It revels in the calluses, strokes
of bank-of-hand, milk-soft
chin that rests along it
when both of them
are silent. It waits,
always, well-tuned,
eager to play.



It was ten to five, bare hours after
we first made love, I woke
you for a second round. We came
again, drifted off to your
warning: “never wake me
for sex before seven again.”
Twelve years and more later
we are older, different jobs,
different schedules, children;
we take our pleasure where
we find it. My alarm goes off
at the same time I woke you
all those years ago, and still
sometimes I cannot resist
a delay in shower time to kiss
every curve, hear your whimpers
against my tongue as I come
inside you with the dawn.



A pet snake
is the antithesis of desire
I see you
and my mind
wanders wonders
how you can pet the snake
and still love me
love my name
I see you
with your pet snake
the antithesis of desire
and yet I take you
into my arms
again and again


for Carrie Ann Pohanka

When I look
into your almond eyes
pass my fingers
through the blackness
of your hair
and call you beautiful

you, demure, color and cast
your gaze to your lap

but when lips and tongues
first touch
you press your litheness
hard against me

eager to disrobe, guide
my hands over your new flesh
lead my lips
to your neck and shoulders

as my body keeps you
from the slight chill
of the wind

I touch your secret places
run my fingers behind
your knees, kiss
your thighs, the crooks
of your elbows

but when you whisper
I want you
we hesitate one last moment

fondle your innocence
kiss it goodbye, sweet
and tender

and are left with love


About the author:

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Literary Yard, Big Windows, and Locust, among others