Inaugural by Robert Beveridge


This is what you trained for
in the back room at night,
blade in hand, again and
again until the floor around
your feet was littered
with fat cap, not a speck
of meat to be found.
This is the day the scarlet
egg whispered your name
into the wind and you
heard it, put aside your old
life without question.
This is the mountain,
these are the waters.
This is the blood in our mouths.


Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Throats to the Sky, FEED, and Sublunary Review, among others.

Published 8/12/21

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