Summer 2009 - THE POTOMAC

A Congress of Monsters
   Kathleen Hellen

A long grey chin reminds you
of Sacco and Vanzetti at a funeral
You’re cynical. Too thin
to costume doubt. Too transparent
in the mask that sometimes answers
squad cars on the block. Sometimes knocks
Devils in the practices of well-trained cops
Devils in the lines of conversation
Voices brew the hunt for witches who undo
the spell of coffee shops. The night is
fraught with treason. Black cats plot anxieties
you thought you’d turned off like the porch light
The late leaves shiver. Familiars haunt
the sexless breasts at Hooters
They carve the headless heads as
frost pulls on its glossed Gestapo boots
The hand that razors apples
seems to know you

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