Mound by Robert Beveridge

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.
Photo by Eman Genatilan on

About the Poet:

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.

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