Rolling Dough In a Tiny Apartment by Robert Beveridge

When the last piece

of Waterford hits

the floor, disintegrates,

you realize that perhaps

Dragnipur isn’t the best

pin you could use, switch

to a dowel hewn

from the very heart

of your sister’s jealousy

when you went to the prom

with the shattered spirit

of last Tuesday’s Algebra

III test and she didn’t.


Did you ever see that movie

where the guy and his ragtag

band of buddies (because no

band of buddies in any movie

ever is a monolith) try

to escape the Gestapo

down a convenient chute

and end up in a trash

compactor that’s just

about ready to do its thing?

You’ve often wondered

whether 3C, beneath you

is a real apartment,

or whether the rumble

that shakes the building

every Saturday at 3AM


sends the remnants

of crystal, mandrake root,

flour, yeast, sugar, cornmeal,

natural logarithms, and your

father’s collection of SS

medals into the channels

beneath the city that teem

with the uniform rat squad

and the inevitable morning-

after messy breakups

on their way to the sea

where, you hope,

there will be more room

to make these empanadas.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Medium Chill, Mulberry Literary, and Remington Review, among others.

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