Monterey Poetry Review
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Robert Beveridge

1/15/2023

 
​Caulobacter crescentus
 
The pot sits beside your hand, the single-
strand camel’s-hair brush at rest on the rim.
What stirred inside you to take on this task
you don’t know, but you feel it in some
part of you too deep to have explored
before. Wet the strand, draw it over the edge
of the shell, fit the next piece. Almost
halfway there, almost time to take
the balut, place it back in the shell
before the next piece is added.
 
Memorial
 
Little Joe holds the end
of his cigarette to the fuse
of a Roman candle, jerks
his hand away once it's caught.
Another block party Memorial Day
in Cleveland's Little Italy.
                                            Vinnie
crutches his way to the park bench,
sits. Vinnie lost the use
of his right leg in the Gulf. “Why you do
this every year, Joe? You think
these people give a shit?”
Joe turns, stares through his one
good eye—the other lost
in World War II.
“Who cares? I do.”


 
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Stickman Review, Nebo, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.

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