King of Swords

by Robert Beveridge (August 2024)

My sophomore American Lit professor
came to the open reading one night
and in a sweater vest and khakis
read us a poem about how he took
ordnance out into the woods
and tracked deer by their spoor,
the bent and broken foliage
in woods so deep the sun
was considered a guest
who’d worn out their welcome.
–
The rest of us clapped, convinced
we had written the poem
that would end world hunger
or war or students’ inability
to follow along with Calculus I,
polite, dismissive, closed.
–
That was thirty-five years ago.
I just turned fifty-three. Two nights ago,
as I made a burrito, I realized
that sometime in the past few months
I’d begun to value iceberg lettuce
in a way I never could before.
–
There wasn’t much distinctive
about that burrito. The seasoning
was from an envelope, the cheese
was pre-shredded. But when I sat down
and bit into it, the crunch
from that plain iceberg lettuce
was cold, crisp, a perfect balance
to melted cheese and meat so hot
steam rose where my teeth had been
an instant before.
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