The Alchemists, the Squirrels, by Robert Beveridge

The search for the perfect needle
continues, the thread acquired
in a deal that saw you relinquish
three quinces, your grandmother,
and a draft choice to be named later.
Between sips, what was once rye
in your shotglass seems to have
become amaranth. The priest
on the stool next to you claims
no possibility of transubstantiation;
you withhold judgment. The ritual
is still on, your roommate asserts,
and Charles Abi Enonchong
has been contacted to record
the proceedings; it falls to you
to procure the last necessary
ingredients: split yellow dal,
the eye of an emu, venom
from a spitting, hooded frat boy.
Each step you take brings you
closer to midnight, and further
from the attic spice cabinet.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Sparrow’s Trombone, Three Line Poetry, and Failed Haiku, among others.

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