Recesses by Robert Beveridge

So many times
we lay after love
your scent
in my nostrils
on my tongue
a few drops of sweat
on their courses
down your cooling breasts
now slower

and every time
you whispered those words
you knew would make me happy
told me how much
you wished
you were pregnant

the fact that you were on the pill should’ve tipped me off

but hey, like they say
love’s blind
like a bat with laryngitis

so I let your words
wash over me
a sea of whispers
I could swim
in till I drowned

here I sit
with my usual bottle
of Southern Comfort
you nowhere in sight
and today’s bottle
almost empty

and as I tip it to my lips
determined to down the rest
in one last heroic effort
I listen to you
whisper your possible pregnancy
one last time

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.

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