person Robert Beveridge, one poem

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.

~

WABI-SABI

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.

~