Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.
In Sunday school we were taught
that the bodies of some saints
were incorruptible. After death,
their bodies lay for days,
weeks, months, with no change;
they only slept, so the story
went, until God called them home.
At eleven, I dreamed of tombs
around the world, sleeping bodies
in repose, waiting for a chance
to rise again. I woke each time
drenched, screaming. I knew,
inside, that saints were hungry.
Now, I cut through graveyards,
tombstones weathered to smooth.
On one grave, a ring of pebbles.
I nudge one back into place, moved
by wind, or curious bird; wonder
who is under this stone, who left
a memory. Then turn and walk away.