If I could take a drop
of honey from the tongue of Satan,
or dip my silver chalice
in an Erewhon river of chocolate,
I would feed you, my lips to yours.
Instead I have filled my mouth
with words, my cup
with water from a mudpuddle
still I ask you
take your nourishment
from me
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Savant-Garde, Other People’s Flowers, and The Indiana Horror Review, among others.
Foxglove Journal 