The songs in the dell
may be sung by wood
pitcher plants eager
for their next meal.
Before you walk the path,
a little beef demiglaçe
behind the ears, pink
Himalayan salt rubbed
into the wrists, a sprig
of rosemary between
your teeth. Thus girded,
a moonlight walk.
KISSES, TAROT CARDS, AND OTHER THINGS THE FAIRIES STOLE
You added the mushrooms at the right
time, but the pumpkin went in a couple
minutes late and it hasn’t quite achieved
the stage where each piece bursts open,
reveals the embryo of the New Messiah
within. You taste the broth, swish it
around your palate for a minute, add
a pinch of salt, a drab of asafoetida, two
tablespoons of ichor of Taranassa,
Prince of Nightmares, Surveyor
of the Kingdom of Leeches, and two
grinds of pink peppercorn. The lid
goes back on for another fifteen
minutes as you continue your search
for an August moon in October.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Page and Spine, The Pointed Circle, and Failed Haiku, among others.
Flights. Issue One, June 2021