When the Fields Burn

We have prepared
for this moment
all our lives.

We wandered
through the mist
until we found
the proper patch
of ether to build
a shelter against
the elementals.

We gathered water
and used it
for baptisms
even in years
there were no births.

We learned to roast
potatoes by the hundreds
in case guests came by.

We spoke at length
every time the world
moved closer to its end.

We kept a hole
in the middle of the field
knew we would need it
but didn’t know who for.

We raised a barn
and watched it
return to the earth.

We return to mist.
Who, now, will speak for us?

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Datura, The Minison Project, and FEED October Series, among others.