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by Robert Beveridge

The sound of salt

on your skin keeps

my ear pressed against you.

Slow, crackled tang

as the sea air worships

you with brine. The sun

against your flesh darkens,

evens freckles, spreads

them over you

maple jelly from my fingers

alone, or with me

you sunbathe nude

when you wear the white swimsuit in public there's not much difference

that is to say

I love your curves wrapped

in white transparency

I love that people stare at you

and whisper

I love that all my friends desire you

I love that you will let me

taste the sea's salt

on your thighs

* * *

About Robert Beveridge
November 2018 marked Robert Beveridge's thirtieth anniversary as a publishing poet. When not writing, he makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, Triadæ, and Welter, among others.

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