Umbra

By Robert_Beveridge

 

Enough to chase the night
away but not enough to banish.

 

Enough to darken skin, keep
sunglasses from the photosensitive

 

but not enough to read by. Bartenders
know their stock by touch. Skin

 

is a commodity here, like all else.
Only the wealthiest take their riches

 

to the grave when a finger may buy
a month's rent. Blade strokes

 

down spine, over sides bare
with want. No one suffers the peel

 

without anesthetic, but fools
try right around Easter every

 

year. Take, eat. This is priceless.

 

------

 

Chiasmus

 

Six weeks of sun. What do clouds
remain hidden behind? Ground

 

cracks, shamans whisper prayers
to rivers, faucets, the gods

 

of the New Mexico desert.

Your ginger and mint left to rot;
mixology impossible in this drought,

 

populace too concerned
with bathing, cornmeal,

 

the price of tea in any country
with more than a trace of rainfall.

 

You contemplate your final lime,
in the end cannot resist, cut it

 

with a razor too dry to rust.

 

 

Robert Beveridge 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.