Years passed, loaded our shoulders
with boulder after boulder, a gunnysack
of pebbles to replace each nonexistent
kiss. Tailors stitched finery in vain.
Wedding dresses, unused, were burned
by the warehouseful. Children built
models of the Visible Man, colored offal
with a rainbow array of highlighters.
Bring your chisel.
In the coma ward
row after row of beds, a nurse at the foot
of each. Chart notations meticulous,
even if there is never any change
in the patients. You’ve tried prayer,
psychic surgery, body paint, all
to no avail. Your charges remain
unresponsive, wait for more radical
treatment. Kiss their lips, throats,
run your fingers up their thighs.
Follow through. Perhaps warmth
and moisture will succeed where
all else has failed.
ROBERT BEVERIDGE makes noise and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent or upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.