The mound had never been there before when we pulled in and parked in the field behind my house. You had never been there before, either, and you laughed, saying your life was in my hands. The mound looked so small in the middle of the field, so innocent, untouched yet by human feet. We climbed to the top— it went farther back than either of us realized. I put my arms around you for the first time and murmured wordless into your ear. You turned, we kissed: sinking down to lay on the mound, I could feel us climbing again, wondering how far back we could go.
About the Poet:
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.
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