By Robert Beveridge

This has not been

the quick and easy birth

of one such as Stalin,

nor has this been

the fated birth

of a David Copperfield,

wrapped in a caul

for the world to see


it has been

a breech-birth,

or perhaps

it has been

the birth of a mutant.

The rose has not been born

in this mud-hut delivery room,

nor has the orchid been born

on this rainy night,

cracks in the walls

forming patterns

like wallpaper

giving the room the odor

of earth and rain

a fecund scent

something will grow here

if only a thicket

of stinging-nettles

with a few carnations

scattered here and there

in the center

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Savant-Garde, Other People’s Flowers, and The Indiana Horror Review, among others.