MEDITATIONS ON SENDING IT BACK FOR BEING JUST A LITTLE UNDERDONE
by Robert Beveridge
I have discovered the location
of the self. Three inches behind
and three inches below your center
rib, right or left depends on the content
of your character. You can boil it
with spring herbs, saute it in bacon
grease, roast tucked into the back
cranny of a sixteen-pound turkey.
Marinated in beer, or spanish fly.
Breath of fire, fingers of ice. Endless
stream of sweat. The sous chef
but there is always that thin river
of sinew. It always flows northeast.
You will realize at some point
there’s nothing you can’t ferment.
Former Virginia resident Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, Ohio. Recent and upcoming appearances include those in Collective Unrest, Cough Syrup and Blood & Bourbon, among others.