From Hell // Robert Beveridge

Body of salt and mist. Cinematography

stippled, dark. Light has never reached

these cobblestones. Technicians scurry,

investigators deduce. Never use two words

where one will suffice; the daguerreotypists

will handle that.

The smell dark, acerbic,

but not that different than usual. The police

leave, as they always do, and the rats

emerge from their holes once again, await

the next feast day. Summer swelters,

lingers; Saint Mary comes apace. The rodents

peek through Catherine wheels, cock

noses to the wind, await blood-scent.

Everyone looks twice at shadows.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.

Image by César Astudillo

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