The last time you made the pilgrimage
to the fountain at Euclid Beach Park,
you said, there was a pentagram
of stones, a skinned dog at the center.

The park is gone, swallowed by high-
rise apartments, McDonald’s, drug
stores. But the world remembers, and those
who understand are drawn as sure
as the families farther down the beach,
whose naked children, burnt by the sun,
challenge the minuscule Lake Erie waves.

We know nothing of the religion of Increase
Mather, the earth’s electromagnetic fields,
the most efficient method to slaughter canine innocents

Nor are we your grandfather, lone
white mystic, star in a sky paved with clouds.

But this place draws, still, despite its
carousel scattered to the wind, Kiddieland
paved over decades ago for the parking lot
behind us as we stand here, look into the stone
base, brows wet with effort, inspiration.


Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Green Ink, Outcast Monthly, and Thirteen Myna Birds, among others.