What Is That

outside of my window like blackened beetles

of onyx and luster and twenty thousand eyes

 

— they’re spies, Russian or Red

                                            they march with steel

toed boots and meter long rifles to off with my head

and toss it down a rabid hole of stench and death

                                a coffin chasm 

 

they lined us in a row bones pointed in salute

tombstone teeth protruding from blue cut lips

they’ll steal the tombstone teeth shining gold

from smoking flesh of her mother and theirs

and in some hell penned arithmetic

call it the final solution.