"The Sparrow's Sister" by Robert Beveridge
- Nov 24, 2021
- 1 min read
I
Wind over grain
becomes you, ripples
in rhythm under
your skin, a sapling
in the wind, its leaves
in love with the pavement.
II
Each of our moments together
laughter, response, minor earthquakes
in electric fire against our fingers. It
seemed an accident, your thin shirt grazed
a shoulder, your fingers on my neck.
“Beverage?” you disappeared,
exit stage left to the kitchen,
temptress who asked with eyes,
held out a soda when I followed.
Effervescent beads on your lips, condensation
down your arm. How could I not bend?
Ever you, you flitted away,
left me holding empty air.
Such curiosity, such desire
to know you in ways only we could
engender, beads of sweat, of lust-pure
incense, the politics of tongues that
never bubble to the surface—
III
leaves in love with pavement
my lips to yours
unphrased questions
a few grains of wheat
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Sparrow's Trombone, The Deadlands, and Of Rust and Glass, among others.