Robert Beveridge


The back forty is risky for birthing.
Sometimes, though, you have no choice
but to drop offspring where they want.
The opinionated fetus is most difficult,
to be sure. And do they ever decide
to do this at a time other than midnight?
(If you ask why a pregnant woman
wanders the back forty at midnight,
you’ve never been married to one.) You
could send the kids to boil water,
were they awake, but you calm yourself
with thoughts of organic, unpasteurized
water, quail at what you might need to boil
from what you drink. Collar two goats
as witnesses, put on your grandfather’s
catcher’s mitt, wait for the crown.
Breathe normally. The farmhouse,
and breakfast, await, whether there is
a live foal or no.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Collective Unrest, Cough Syrup, and Blood & Bourbon, among others.

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