December 2020

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by Robert Beveridge

The gift of your shirt

removed, tossed to the couch

as we kissed. You stood

on its arm to reach my lips

with your neck, your breasts.

How I wanted to pick you

up, carry you into the bedroom

and take off the rest, learn

every covered curve and the way

they would grip me as I

entered you. But we stayed

on that couch, lips and fingers

tangled, until meat spoiled

in the turgid June sun.

We ate vegetarian that week

and didn't care.

About Robert Beveridge
November 2018 marked Robert Beveridge's thirtieth anniversary as a publishing poet. When not writing, he makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, Triadæ, and Welter, among others.