Robert Beveridge

The rose bushes around your hut

have grown wild for so long you

no longer remember what topiary

animals they were carved into. All

you remember is that while sand

erodes almost anything, water

erodes sand. Water, the secret

weapon in every game of Jan-

Ken-Pon ever waged, yet one few

combatants are desperate

enough to ever play. You stare

out the window at the tangle

of thorns that force the shutters

to stay open, try to identify species

of dragon by their curves.

You wonder when the royal guard

will come along, set the whole

mess to the torch. You put a pot

of gruel over the fire in preparation.

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.

Want to read more great Funicular poems? Issue 3 is for sale right here.