Viziman Champion
by Robert Beveridge
One step from the doorway and mud
under my feet says “home”, the stink
of stray dog, the forge, the sewer grate
just down the stairs across the street.
Everything in shades of brown save
a few glints of iron, scraps the smith
lays hands on in ways no one understands.
The new sun, crossing over a thousand
mornings.1 The white chemise tangled
against the red hair of a lover new, yet
familiar. The tang of jasmine beneath
dog piss. The rattle of steel in twin
scabbards against my back. The twist-
in-the-gut certainty that Raymond’s
killer is somewhere in the city. The last
bits of dried-apple breakfast chased
with mead. There is work to be done.
[1] This sentence is a quote from LiSA’s song “My Soul, Your Beats!”
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it’s been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Loch Raven Review, Moirai, and The Short of It, among others.
