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Tower of Silence

You have come to my bed
a virgin, as I to yours,
since every first tryst between new lovers
is, again, the first time.
These are our acts of worship,
the fire between and under us,
its shine on the ceiling
and in the corners of the room.
We sing our devotionals often,
not on any set schedule
(the best devotionals never are),
and not as often as we’d like
but as often as we can.
Like a pilot light the lick
is always there, roused by glance
or touch from quiet ember,
with a kiss into consuming pyre.
And sing. Devote. This is the song of flame,
the crackle of white
through red on its way to ash,
our favorite song, twin melodies
and, once built, endless climax.
The flames recede, but never die.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.


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